Bound A Brook
Karen Hallenbeck-Sikorsky-George BS,RN
January 26th, 2007
The ripple, fond of fairy tale, counts mushroom mountains, lions tail too, beyond
The stream now green, lined with pebbles deeper than the clear, cold, water
Do I take a straw and sip the water, cleanse my toy soldiers from within where
Dust trodden boots stomp hard on my frail ribs, cavort with paper dolls pasted
High on top, old construction paper dreams, water colors (you are) to me
Make sense (nonsense) of love, the brook is my stream, the river flows, back
Hot chicken soup, sloppy white egg noodles lay to await
A shiny spoon, the eminent task of soothing an empty stomach
Hungry for today, but starving for years, and skipping to an
Imagined beat in my head, a meal becomes a concert, hidden
Back stage pass let me in, past the strong men with sweaty brows, to see
A navigator appear on stage muting tones through his Seinheiser and blare
Vocals of love, pain, more love, and then the funeral march of his dead being
His spirit wrapped in muted pink cloth, like an ending egg shell cracked doll
Hanging one leg wrapped about her neck, in a strangled song the flag hangs
Too burning, and destroyed by a people who died long before the earth they
Fought for ended, freedom from rage, and upheaval through heaven
The scent of gunpowder purges all thought of retribution, and the
Green of your eyes can be blue (just cry awhile) and the pallor of
Your skin is just the faint reality of sickness, the plague struck you
Two men fight in that wet, rained down street, behind the gin mill over a pool
Game (who won), and the prostitute's daughter drags her blanket through
A mud puddle to watch, there is stray lightning in the overcast sky, and
Sirens approach as two tired police men decide "to go or not to go" and
A gun shot sounds, and blue blood pours violently into the rain puddle
Below the room, the child goes upstairs (mother is done), sleeps alone no bed
Lawn mower sounds and the week end of rich men with
Sports car begins, wives hidden under layers of cream
Hair dye covering their grey strands, the negligee does not
Cover the scent of boredom, to spread or not to, no butter here
Will I wait another day, can the smell of fresh, dark coffee awaken my energy
(Again) will the rape of the word create the purple Berkshire mountains here
Underneath the bridge in metropolitan New York, can we ice skate over
Desert plains hand in hand, make a difference (you and I), or will we stand
Frozen statues unlike pyramids, one fist bared to punch an unknown bag
Saw dust falls like snow flakes, and the temperate wrath has no impact
Yellow roses blooming in unison, black cat cross my path
Transmission fluid rank smell on this alley of fortitude driven
Alone, one car breaks down, a taxi cab arrives, and the dime
You place in the pay phone slot is not enough, just never enough
I will wait here dressed in white cotton, hair damp, pulled back, face bare
Eyes wide and deep blue, lips pensively awaiting (your gentle kiss), and
Toes curled in a night chill, knees bent, arms around them too, I sit to
Be here (just for you), and when the time comes, and sleep pulls me
Into innocent fugue, you will play me like the violin I am, and the sounds
Lyric prose, will emanate from deep within this doll I am (of you)
Peace with an ounce of love flows beyond
This undefined brook, down here below the bayou
The humid night air cloys me, wants to choke me
But you are bound with me as one
We dance and turn to face the moon
It is you, sit here, you are me...
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