I saw an acorn on the ground
I picked it up, turned it around
I put it in my pocket and I took it home with me.
I made a hole I made a mound
And laid it there all snug and sound
And then I covered it and watered it, you see.
I went to bed that night and wondered
What if I wake up from my slumber
To find an oak tree like no one has ever seen.
Then I would climb up it and wander
Amid the lightning bolts and thunder
And find a treasure that’s been waiting there for me.
But when I woke up in the morning
The sky was grey, the rain was pouring
And my oak was just a muddy patch upon the grass.
And my dream was just a child’s story
Which on the chilly wooden flooring
Lay scattered like so many beads of glass.
And then my parents moved around
To other streets, in other towns,
And I grew up and I left home to find my way.
And though my feet were on the ground
My head was always in those thunderclouds
And I knew I’d find my treasure there one day.
Well, you know that life is long
With twists and turns of rights and wrongs
And many happenings that wait around the bend.
But all these things only prolong
The culmination of each song
And every song must come home in the end.
And so one pretty summers day
I passed that town along the way
And went to look at where the old house stood.
The owners, seemed like they were out all day
So I went round back through the alleyway
And climbed over the fence into the yard.
And there, where the lawn had been
Grew an oak as big as I had ever seen
And I swear that it was where I’d made my mound.
So I climbed up and ripped my jeans
And I emerged out of that of green
To see the world beneath me spinning ’round.
So I just sat there for a while
Just looking out for miles and miles
Until the cool blue dusk began to settle in.
And on my face I wore a smile
For all that time of searching and denial
When this was where my treasure’s always been.
There is no home like place
Where every smile has a face
Distant grows the fondest heart
Soon it yearns to be apart
When every fake is just a smile
We’ve all been on the make a while
Fighting for a place back home
Where we can eat and drink alone
Provided nothing is completed
Can I retire undefeated?
Softer grows the strongest heart
My angel, I don’t know my part.
From Frida Kahlo, with love.
See it here on Marty McConnell’s site
I don’t generally post others’ poems, but this one, courtesy of myfairvagabond, i really liked.
Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell
by Marty McConnell
leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
you make him call before
he visits. you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.
This morning I had my mind blown by my seven year old son, who wrote this poem at school. Soon I may have to down my pen and hand over to him… What do you think?
I have a stone in the centre of my chest
Where the heart once was
It feels heavy.
How can I talk when my tongue is swollen?
How can I shout when we’re so far apart?
How can I touch with my frozen fingers?
How can I feel with my concrete heart?
And the angel says: just listen in silence
Whisper their names when you are apart
Cool her forehead with your frozen fingers
And we’ll all hold on to your concrete heart.
– o –
For the women in my life, on the 8th March 2013
They pick through my entrails the hags
Gathering the dripping mass in trembling hands
And spreading it on old newspaper
Claws scraping at the concrete
Beneath the torn wet print
As they squat and fuss around their spoils
Wise fingers hop hop hop like long legged crows
Here is a healthy pair of kidneys lovely liver
And plenty viscera to scatter to the poor
I watch with feigned disinterest
Picking through disintegrating pages
Spread in a mass of dripping piles on my desk
My callused fingers scratching at the membranes
Of the insides of some great heaving beast
On the horizon I see that it’s grown dark
And somewhere behind the dripping curtains
You’re reading bedtime stories to the boys
In wait for my return from hunting glory
And I will smuggle home inside a ball of gore
And paper the remnants of my heart
(From “Songs of Love”)
I turn my head to you
I turn my heart to you
My heart, it yearns for you
My Heart, I’ll hurt for you.
So when the gates of Hell are sealed
And all the lies and truths revealed –
My heart will cry for you
I’ll burn, my Heart, for you.
And when the gates of Heaven blessed
Will offer me eternal rest –
My heart will plead for you
I will reject it all for you.
And when the prophecies transpire
And the final stars expire –
The void will call for you
There will be light for you.
I wrote these words about another kind
of love, a child of a pained and selfish mind.
But now, my Heart, I sing of you,
my heart, it sings for you.
– O –