Friday, August 26, 2011

Poem: It's Raining

Culture wars,
Unequal distribution of wealth,
Brown paper bags folded,
It's cooling down outside,
I'll turn off the lights,

Its raining,
Its raining,

Your hands are tingly,
From being cold,
Or hitting the cement,

The city lights were tall,
And reflected on us,
Orange haze reflected on us,

We've stood on the sewer caps,
With our bare feet,
We wanted healing,

But the blue plastic cup,
Had to be filled,

It's raining,
It's raining,

The blue plastic cup had to be filled,
Put ice in it,
Cut up some land,
Call it reservation land,
Call it a cut in our hearts,
In our souls,

The green carpet,
I guess,
Skinned our knees on it,
The plants that she wanted me to water,
The wind chimes I hear,
The dining room table,
I gaze at my reflection in the mirror,
Here I am,

Bodies are not present,
Souls tarnished across time,

It's raining,
It's raining,

We could cry many tears,
But the distraction of the culture would be there,
We are torn between worlds,

The soul wants to fly,
We do not want to live like this,

It's raining,
It's raining,

For our tears.


Ankhesen Mié said...

There she goes with that imagery again.

And wordplay...

The green carpet,
I guess,
Skinned our knees on it,

...don't think I missed the clever wordplay

Anishinaabekwe said...

Ankhesen Mié - I am glad you appreciate my wordplay in this poem. I try to draw up the image with words, recollect, write, edit, sit, feel and write. What I am trying to say all comes together somehow.