So, this isn't the first time I've had a blog.
I know. I know exactly you're thinking.
Okay, so I don't. But, that doesn't mean you can't get to know what I am thinking in (gestures at the blog title) The Melting Pot of a Flower. I happen to adore that title because:
a) It is the title of my favorite poem that I've written and,
b) It represents my jumble of thoughts that I will invariably dump on this page whenever I get the urge. The flower part comes from my name, which happens to be the name of a flower.
I am into moments like these. Moments where you can feel the sun rising within you and just know that big things are going to happen, and that this is the start of a new poem in your life.
I'll leave you with this.
The Melting Pot of a Flower
We were better off left
alone in our unjoined coffee cups
than smelling the brew of the hot pot
we call our home.
Smoke and ashes replaced hugs
and kisses and our words
were sacrificed to the silence,
buried underground like roots
of coffee trees.
Tears that take the place
of dewdrops tell our
stories. They sing a melody
that spreads across our leaves
and seeps through our roots.
The soil of our home is no longer
safe, it is war where angels
are hidden in doorways,
love nothing-
but a secret weapon.
Denial is our universal
language that we pray does not
become embedded in the stories
that we will tell our grandchildren.
Violence is not the virtue of our
cause, but hope,
the definition of foolish dreams
of its foolish people.
We could not help but pray to God that the labels
are mistakes, lies stamped across our faces
similar to the bruises skinned across
our arms like wilted daffodils.
Coffee beans stain pigments
across our hearts, ground sins
with bitter aftertastes.
"I am a flower dying as a seed,
growing too soon for my petals to breathe
and taste the air of a new beginning,"
a seedling yells to the gardens,
because a renaissance was not written.
Her promises of “never again” are lost to the wind
because she was a flower not meant to breathe
and the only offering she owes to the future
is the revival of her seeds and the remembrance
of her dreams, for they are flowers that
will get a shot to be free.
I know. I know exactly you're thinking.
Okay, so I don't. But, that doesn't mean you can't get to know what I am thinking in (gestures at the blog title) The Melting Pot of a Flower. I happen to adore that title because:
a) It is the title of my favorite poem that I've written and,
b) It represents my jumble of thoughts that I will invariably dump on this page whenever I get the urge. The flower part comes from my name, which happens to be the name of a flower.
I am into moments like these. Moments where you can feel the sun rising within you and just know that big things are going to happen, and that this is the start of a new poem in your life.
I'll leave you with this.
The Melting Pot of a Flower
We were better off left
alone in our unjoined coffee cups
than smelling the brew of the hot pot
we call our home.
Smoke and ashes replaced hugs
and kisses and our words
were sacrificed to the silence,
buried underground like roots
of coffee trees.
Tears that take the place
of dewdrops tell our
stories. They sing a melody
that spreads across our leaves
and seeps through our roots.
The soil of our home is no longer
safe, it is war where angels
are hidden in doorways,
love nothing-
but a secret weapon.
Denial is our universal
language that we pray does not
become embedded in the stories
that we will tell our grandchildren.
Violence is not the virtue of our
cause, but hope,
the definition of foolish dreams
of its foolish people.
We could not help but pray to God that the labels
are mistakes, lies stamped across our faces
similar to the bruises skinned across
our arms like wilted daffodils.
Coffee beans stain pigments
across our hearts, ground sins
with bitter aftertastes.
"I am a flower dying as a seed,
growing too soon for my petals to breathe
and taste the air of a new beginning,"
a seedling yells to the gardens,
because a renaissance was not written.
Her promises of “never again” are lost to the wind
because she was a flower not meant to breathe
and the only offering she owes to the future
is the revival of her seeds and the remembrance
of her dreams, for they are flowers that
will get a shot to be free.
-D.A.
-xoxo Dalia
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete