Poetry....

 Today our theme is poetry. So I'm joining late, 11-something p.m. in Kansas, which means it is already tomorrow in Chicago. I am joining the party at BTL blogging challenge for July.

A couple of favorites written by Langston Hughes. Interestingly enough, I found out that Slum Dreams was originally published in as Little Dreams and some of the wording was different. But I like this best. It so eloquently addressing what is not an eloquent life to live at all. 

Slum Dreams

By LANGSTON HUGHES

Little dreams 
Of springtime 
Bud in sunny air 
With no roots 
To nourish them, 
Since no stems 
Are there- 
Detached, naive, 
So young, 
On air alone 
They're hung.

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

-Langston Hughes. 

Poetry of my own is a different beast. Harder to write. sometimes. Sometimes it is like air itself and seeps through from my pores like sweat on a hot Kansas day.

Here is one I wrote in High school (that was the 1980's folks).

I Am

I cry,
and I am growing.
I laugh,
and I am triumphant.
I watch,
and I am learning.
I grieve, and I am knowing.
I laugh,
and I am a winner.

-Carrie Suderman

Here is another. It truly depicts teenage angst. And hopelessness.

Changes in Time

My silent solitude.

A secret death.

Stealthy.

Slinky.

Disgusted,

I walk.

To far, far away.

Forgetting.

Screaming and terrified.

calm, in control.

Crying in fear,

in pain.

Heartbroken.

Proud.

Lost.

A child

lost in the crowd.

So young.

So innocent,

and vulnerable.

Crazy and frustrated.

Crying in shame—

growing, learning.

Changes in time...

meaningless,

painful,

priceless.

Changes.

Confusing, cradling,

Warm and loving....

Changing.

-Carrie Suderman

Of course, there is the one I banged out last week. Which is rare these days. I seldom write poetry anymore. 

Rage On

Sweet and gentle
the patter of the rain.
Now tamed and docile,
just like my soul.
Not long ago
the thunder rolled
angry and boisterous.
Violent and intimidating.

Inner turmoil
violently churning,
thundering on,
striking where it wants,
unpredictable and aggressive.
Then,
it passes.
Replaced by the sweet, soft patter
of refreshing rain.

Or tears.
No longer violent.
Falling softly
from my face.
The storm has passed.
The refreshing and renewal have begun.

-Carrie Horn

So that is a glimpse of the old and the new. And one of my all-time favorite poets, Langston Hughes. He's well worth the read. So relevant to my past, to today, to my personal journey, to society.