Poems

Had to write some poems for class. Just thought I'd post them.

Things that Matter, From God to Mathers

Listen to me son:
I know you think I hate you
But I’ve been lovin’ on you
Since before the day I made you.

There’s method to your rhyme
That your writing on the dotted line
It’s my design to help you define
All the pain and shame that surrounds you.

I know your father didn’t bother
To be there for you
And that your mother messed up
But it was me holding your head up
When you were crying in the dark
In the trailer park when the days were long
And all you had was your song.

I know the way races discriminate
As they disseminate their resolve to hate
And life hits you in the face
And makes you bleed
But my own son shed blood to bring you home
To me.

I know you’re a soldier to Hailie
But your baby’s gotta know me.
Could you see if you got time to rap a song about me?
I gave her to you to fill the hole
That is eating your soul
While I wait for you to turn to me.

It’s not too late you don’t have to fake
That you’re fine when you’re really
Dying inside.

I love you son.

Gate Garbage Sweat Shells

Missionary boarding school near
Colombian border
Compounded fence opens as gate swings out
And we trudge past the cows that graze in the streets
And stare at us and “moo” at cars trying to get through.

Time for the monthly project of picking up
Trash in the neighborhood where our dorm
Is the highest building standing two stories.

Vast expanse of blue tacked with limp
clouds
Interrupted only by the Andes
which blur purple into the western sky.

Sweat trickles down and soaks shirt as
I trudge with big plastic bags that
Stick to my legs when I let them hang.

The grit and dust in my toes like me
To step in the cool grass that shades feet
As I snatch up broken bottles and crumpled
Paper and faded chip bags to add
To my rubbish sack.

The sun spits smells out of the bushes
That wrinkle my nose into a funny face.
Some plants seem to leak bug juice.

A glance to see that others too forage for debris.
Step in deeper to grab the last crumpled bag and
Stop.

Smooth cold hard brass rolls into my open palm
Shells Shot Gun. Guerillas?
Across the street from the school.
There’s been talk.

Camping trips to surrounding forests canceled because of the infiltrators.
They have been here. They are here.
Soon, the missionary boarding school will close
And all its citizens shipped off to safer places
Where the sky no longer stretches into mountains
And neither do the cows share paths.