Strange Days

Strange Days ~
 
A stranger tells you that you are made of strange days,
that those children fair and full of grace
are not related,
are not for you.
And before you can reply
angrily,
or with supreme indifference
arched in a sardonic eyebrow,
or just
blankly,
he is gone.
The street chatter filling in,
closing up the air where he stood.
Why did he say that?
What did it mean?
Why do you care?
 
Strange days making up a map of nameless islands,
ringed by harsh mountains and
oceans of tooth and claw and smothering seatangle,
here there be monsters….
A stranger tells you that you have no claim
no kin
with the fair and the blessed.
With whom do you align with then?
What kith surrounds you and fills all the roles in your inner stage?
And what part is this dropped upon you
unrehearsed and
unasked for?
 
The sky still hangs overhead
and the well worn shoes on your feet are recognized,
familiar,
and the spaces inside you tossing
like a small plastic boat in a draining bathtub,
have settled
uneasily,
and yet your thoughts chase over and over,
scanning,
the words he threw at your feet and left you to trample.
Why did he say that?
What did it mean?
Why do you care?
Why do you care?
Why should you care?
 
©jayetomas2017
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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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5 Responses to Strange Days

  1. I like this poem. It has a desperate truth in it—even when we should really be asking, who the feck are you anyway? we silently wonder if maybe they’re right.

  2. Pingback: Writing Links…3/13/17 – Where Genres Collide

  3. ailsacawley says:

    This is so on the nail. Too often we listen and ponder the things which were thrown away comments from someone who doesn’t matter. Thank you!! ❤

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