Generations

“No one remembers the former generations, and even those yet to come will not be remembered by those who follow them.”

Part 1

Cruel laughter rings
Around a five-year-old boy

Look at the little baby!
He carries a teddy bear!

And tears appear in the eyes
Of the young, confused boy

And the toy bear

Part 2

She was a lithesome seventeeen
Wanting to leave girlhood behind;
He was so handsome, quiet, forceful
He filled her soul, her heart, her mind

Giving herself to adult pleasure
Finding too late the price of lust;
Violence breaking out in ruin
Having a baby, broken trust

Young single mom setting up a nursery
Worn teddy bear for the baby’s bed;
The only gift that his father left him
So many things must stay
Unsaid

Part 3

His mother died when he was only six
He had no father that he’d ever known
He set off with his grandmother to live
Some other place, with everything unknown

His only friend, a tattered sewn-up toy
The house smelled funny, all his tears were spent;
He hugged his only friend up to face
Just trying to recall
His mother’s scent

(..)

The Day of Her Departure

She heard the wind across the way;
Her chest grew tight, the sky turned gray,
And all she knew just fell away,
The day of her departure

She wanted more, she needed more;
She didn’t know what was in store
But wanted time – a leisure tour –
A world both ripe and larger

It wasn’t that she didn’t care
For those behind; it was that there
Were dreams that she had yet to dare –
To dance, to be a marcher —

Then one last time, the weather vane,
Perhaps a flash – a hint – of pain,
For she would not be back again:
The day of her
Departure

She Knows Now

(Part II. See here for Part I. – Owen)

The morning sits among the plow fields sleeping,

The shadows start to crawl from early sun;

For what’s gone down she knows now – there’s no keeping

A hidebound lie that’s been turned loose

To run

= = = = =

(Part II. See here for Part I. – Owen)

Who is That?

What is her story?

Who is that? What is her story?
Picture jumping off the screen.
Searching my mind’s inventory,
Has the poet scrambling.

Maybe she’s a brand-new doctor.
Maybe she’s just having fun
After conquering depression.
Maybe she just met someone

Who will love and treat her gently.
Maybe she’s out on a trip
Of a lifetime, there, intently,
Smiling at some idle quip

Of somebody just off-camera;
Two old girlfriends, maybe three.
Who’s that girl now, what’s her story?
I’ll tell you, and
You tell me