Life sways as life will.
A simple yet complex poem on the uniqueness certain in every day disguised by the mundane
If only we could flee
The machine behind our own facade,
We would see in every day
The rarity of life's parts,
A birthday card on a table
Overflown with true emotion,
A paper boat bobbing steadily,
Nonetheless set in motion,
A willow swaying gently
Through the afternoon's light wind,
A freshly caught salmon on a river bank,
Waiting to be tinned,
A lonesome tabby cat
Lapping milk from a porcelain bowl,
An ashen fire crowded nightly,
Now alone, steeped in coal,
The best-before date on a cereal box
That once seemed years away,
Lies on a landfill, crushed to shreds,
Yet still signifies today,
In normality lies rarity,
In the mundane is the obscene,
For all the days the world has lasted,
Not for one has it come to seem
Quite like this.
About the Creator
Christy Clark
19, U.K.
Aspiring writer, looking for some inspiration.
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More stories from Christy Clark and writers in Poets and other communities.
Over and over
Sun sloped over the rear steps of the American Bridge Community Centre, unseen. It narrowly escaped deprived daffodils, languishing over concrete that suffocated lives already gone. Inside the structure resided four teenagers, fixated on something that slowly reared into view and, once it did, may have provoked a laugh from any onlooker. But inside the building seriousness coated the walls, intensity as strong as the cool June breeze, in spite of the sun. The object of attention was a ship, located in a dense tank, where a despondent fragment of paper bobbed to the periphery of the model, flanked by impending doom. The fragment belonged to a sheet which, combined with another thirty, made up the musings of The Boston Film Club; a group of inexperienced, inharmonious dreamers, bonded by the silver screen. There was Jenny, the quaint, calculated ringleader, whose talent made up for other members’ lack of, and fueled their ambition. Then there was ‘vain’ Bobby, the pretty face of the team, whose charm all but ended there and shrewd ability to act rather masked an uninteresting personality. Next was Jonathan, whose great intellect diminished his otherwise mundane appearance, and love for the past rather filled in the historical side of this great escapade. Finally, there was Heather, whose fiery determination was both cause for conflict and entirely necessary, wielding productivity from an otherwise indolent group. All in all, The Boston Film Club was underwhelming, undersized and underappreciated, something each member knew all too well, yet refused to let temper dreams of stardom.
By Christy Clark2 years ago in Fiction
Can You Drive a Ford Fiesta Through a Desert?
I’m flying down the B1 highway from Windhoek to Keetmanshoop with a map and a boot full of camping gear. I’m excited for the first stop of my Namibian road trip: the Quiver Tree Forest. I spot the sign and turn onto the C17, off the tarmac and onto the gravel. I’ll be there soon; it’s only ten miles or so. I am unprepared for what comes next. The car slides and slips across the road. I am not fully in control anymore. I slow to a crawl. The car judders and shudders, the noise deafening, the vibrations rattling the teeth in my skull. It takes me around an hour to drive the ten miles. I arrive at the campsite relieved to be in one piece, even if it feels like all my bones have been shaken slightly out of place. I will later learn that this is what happens when the gravel road becomes “corrugated”, and that the roads authority goes round once a week to “grade” them. Seems I arrived about 6 days after the grader had last been round.
By Jenifer Nim4 days ago in Wander
Comments (1)
love this poem, the rhythm and simplicity of the idea hit well and make it really wholesome and enjoyable to read!