Post by t w i z z - - on Apr 24, 2009 0:49:56 GMT -5
TITLE: Colton.
GENRE: Free Verse.
CRITIQUE: Yes.
STATUS: Complete.
SUMMARY: This is about a small town my relatives live in near Pullman, Washington. It's tiny and a very rural/farming community. But it's beautiful.
OTHER: Hm.
GENRE: Free Verse.
CRITIQUE: Yes.
STATUS: Complete.
SUMMARY: This is about a small town my relatives live in near Pullman, Washington. It's tiny and a very rural/farming community. But it's beautiful.
OTHER: Hm.
Colton
Rolling hills, wash away
all of our suffering.
Grass that sweeps our ankles,
rustling by our toes,
golden in the sunrise.
The heat presses down,
like a blanket,
smothering our talk.
Dust billows in great clouds,
creating a throne of
dirt and grime,
under our fingernails
and in our hair.
The dust is everywhere,
you can't get rid of it.
It is a curse
following you
blowing through your ears,
finding its way into all of the
crevices of your skin
between your fingers
between your toes
underneath your eyes.
Don't speak,
listen to the crickets sing
about our arrival,
our trespass, onto
their territory.
Their music
like little choirs
hailing the heavens
with their joy.
My hands tickle
rubbed along the chopped
up stems of the harvest.
They tingle with the sensation
like a forgotten memory
prickles in the back of your mind
waiting to be noticed.
Taste the dust on your
cracked, chapped lips -
breathe it in like the clear,
fresh air that surrounds you.
Taste the farm,
the horses and grass
and pinecones,
which we throw
just kids.
Feel the autumn
envelop you with its
dusty fingers and grimy hands
full of sunshine, smiles
and joy.
Let the sky bundle you up
with its entirety
so big in this empty
lonely place they call home.
But it is not lonely.
Because here
we are a people;
not divided
not seperated.
Here we work together
to build a hearth
to build a home
to build our hearts.
Rolling hills, wash away
all of our suffering.
Grass that sweeps our ankles,
rustling by our toes,
golden in the sunrise.
The heat presses down,
like a blanket,
smothering our talk.
Dust billows in great clouds,
creating a throne of
dirt and grime,
under our fingernails
and in our hair.
The dust is everywhere,
you can't get rid of it.
It is a curse
following you
blowing through your ears,
finding its way into all of the
crevices of your skin
between your fingers
between your toes
underneath your eyes.
Don't speak,
listen to the crickets sing
about our arrival,
our trespass, onto
their territory.
Their music
like little choirs
hailing the heavens
with their joy.
My hands tickle
rubbed along the chopped
up stems of the harvest.
They tingle with the sensation
like a forgotten memory
prickles in the back of your mind
waiting to be noticed.
Taste the dust on your
cracked, chapped lips -
breathe it in like the clear,
fresh air that surrounds you.
Taste the farm,
the horses and grass
and pinecones,
which we throw
just kids.
Feel the autumn
envelop you with its
dusty fingers and grimy hands
full of sunshine, smiles
and joy.
Let the sky bundle you up
with its entirety
so big in this empty
lonely place they call home.
But it is not lonely.
Because here
we are a people;
not divided
not seperated.
Here we work together
to build a hearth
to build a home
to build our hearts.
