Expiration
Expiration is not my desire.
To don an orange wig is not to wear a portent, or
to be tree laden with oranges midst autumn leaves of
speckled brown, muted tan or luminous yellow; a sign
of the seasons, confused, muddled and merging into one.
For years and years, I have grown wild,
have come close to splitting the stitches that
bind me to the wishes of others, of people not
my own, of people not myself.
There is bewilderment as you read the thoughts of
an eccentric, as I reach out and grow my tendrils around
and beyond my crumpled purple hats, so that my fringe
is tentacled to the electrifying clouds of rainstorms.
How hard it is to carry scores of the critical corrections of
cowboy bosses on my back, and still to stay compact, within
the seams that contained my compulsion to crackle on.
Nonetheless, there is a place above the rainstorms, where my
crusty poetry lives and grows, a place still inhabitable by the parts
of myself that continue to expand, to branch out; even as my body
sheds it's shades of orange and tends towards the purple.
For years and years, I will bear witness to shifting conundrums,
to the changing shades of purple heaven.
And this is the truth of me - unencumbered.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, November 2018
Inspired by 'My Poem for my Stepdaughter', by Prageeta Sharma.
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| 'Autumn Tree' by Jay Cool |
To don an orange wig is not to wear a portent, or
to be tree laden with oranges midst autumn leaves of
speckled brown, muted tan or luminous yellow; a sign
of the seasons, confused, muddled and merging into one.
For years and years, I have grown wild,
have come close to splitting the stitches that
bind me to the wishes of others, of people not
my own, of people not myself.
There is bewilderment as you read the thoughts of
an eccentric, as I reach out and grow my tendrils around
and beyond my crumpled purple hats, so that my fringe
is tentacled to the electrifying clouds of rainstorms.
How hard it is to carry scores of the critical corrections of
cowboy bosses on my back, and still to stay compact, within
the seams that contained my compulsion to crackle on.
Nonetheless, there is a place above the rainstorms, where my
crusty poetry lives and grows, a place still inhabitable by the parts
of myself that continue to expand, to branch out; even as my body
sheds it's shades of orange and tends towards the purple.
For years and years, I will bear witness to shifting conundrums,
to the changing shades of purple heaven.
And this is the truth of me - unencumbered.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, November 2018
Inspired by 'My Poem for my Stepdaughter', by Prageeta Sharma.
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