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Passions in Poetry

Bloodlines

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ponderthepoetorrsx
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since 06-25-2011
Posts 267
U.S , Ca


0 posted 02-02-2014 12:29 AM       View Profile for ponderthepoetorrsx   Email ponderthepoetorrsx   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to Submit your Poem to Passions  View IP for ponderthepoetorrsx

  Somewhere in this city with tall apartment complexes that smell of nothing in particular; a whiff of chicharones here, a whiff of smoke there, and noxious fumes lurking somewhere. In this city where just yesterday the breeze brought sand and every footstep lift behind a cloud of dust, today it is raining; a torrential rain. The folks they are glad, the drought is over, and they sing and they dance.
     Twelve people died yesterday, though none of thirst (for water anyway), but someone else died too. By now that someone has crossed the rift between life and that final abyss; where nothing exists. Few tears were shed for him, but few is better than none.
    Rain falls from dark clouds, but for a moment the sun is out, and in that moment the city folk gasp. They gasp at the droplets gleaming in the sun, each like a rainbow metaphor. A moment and the droplets are forever gone, and the clouds reform, the sun retreats, and rain goes on. The folk they chatter excitedly, with the fresh memory of green, yellow, and red; trapped inside a transparent sphere. the children folk try to catch the rain on their tongues, as children folk are wont to do. Pretty soon the folk go on their merry way; some to work in whatever they work, others to watch "Pranks and Knacks with Thugs", or whatever it is that they do.
    
      Through the mist and torrential rain we see umbrellas, hats, T-shirts, jeans (and all plethora of proletarian apparel that is overly abundant even in rainy weather). For the purpose of escapism and romanticism, let us alter the truth a bit.
    Through the mist and torrential rain we see black, brown, and greys beneath black umbrellas.
Somewhere a camera man is particularly interested in a torrent of water running down from the roof of a café. In that café a critic is cruelly butchering a book, with a hot steamy cup of a la cliche coffee, and of course a pastry. On some other wooden table, beneath a sepia light a student works ferociously to beat the clock.
    Next to the café, there is a restaurant where tonight a man will eat with his family, and he will go home. A week will pass and nothing will change. Perhaps none of it matters, but on the sidewalk shoes step into a puddle, and make that familiar sound known as splash.
    Across the street there will be  a young man with black hair and dark skin, inside a black suit he'll rush inside a grey building, and leave wearing white. Though let us suppose that narrators sometimes lie.
    That young man he'll rush inside that building, and up several flights of stairs. He'll briefly wonder about the height of the building, before rushing through a dark corridor with only one door at the end. He will knock abruptly, a lawyer of sorts will open the door, he'll enter and the lawyer will let the door close with a tired creak.
    By the window a young lady with ambers eyes, will watch the rain streak down the window pane, and dream of better days. In the corner of the room a young man with fair skin and fair hair will sit patiently byby the coffee table. Towards the center in front of the main desk, a young lady will tap away at a small projected screen.
     By this point the lawyer of sorts will go to his desk and sit, and with a formal cough he'll declare the meeting in session. Outside the clouds will darken and the wind will blow. Somewhere a bird will thump on a window, and a vial of tears will break.

Richard
© Copyright 2014 richard salgado - All Rights Reserved
Bluesy Socrateaser
Member
since 11-07-2002
Posts 130
In The Mirror


1 posted 02-03-2014 09:18 PM       View Profile for Bluesy Socrateaser   Email Bluesy Socrateaser   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems  View IP for Bluesy Socrateaser

Such an entertaining read! Each sentence like an episode of the larger theme.

I was especially fond of this line:
quote:
"a critic is cruelly butchering a book, with a hot steamy cup of a la cliche coffee"


Great stuff!

...just bein' Bluesy

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