A Potato In His Pocket

The grey haired man walked,
a potato tucked safely in his pocket.
The past was his constant companion,
his heart longed for his homeland.
The tapestry of his life woven
by threads of pain and strength.
The grey haired man,
was once a boy that lived across the ocean,
persecuted for his religion.
His mother was murdered,
left bleeding by her infant son.
The infant grew into a brave boy,
he saved a train of children destined to die.
He jumped off the train,
and pleaded with the American soldiers,
to listen to his plight.
His picture was published
in the newspaper.
A hero,
the boy wearing only a tattered men's dress shirt.
The boy with dark bright eyes,
he ran like the wind,
with the will to survive.
His voice rose with courage,
his determination,
brought salvation
to all those children that day.
The grey haired man,
never quite forgot,
the taste of grass he ate from the ground,
escaping to the mountains to stay alive.
He never forgot the hunger,
the potato in his pocket tucked away,
the potato in his pocket a source of comfort.
The past his companion,
all the days of his life.




This is dedicated to my husband's grandfather, Antranik Sheshedian, a survivor of the Armenian genocide. We have a framed photograph of the picture that was published in the newspaper, the day he saved the train of children by urging the American soldiers to listen to him.

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How

My veins are rivers
carrying pain.
I hurt for you, my friend.
4.74 degrees of separation between us,
tap into Facebook's largest social network,
and it reveals itself like magic.
That what I know is true,
we are all connected,
you and I.
The woman in the Congo raped and beaten.
The man in Ohio that can't buy groceries for Thanksgiving dinner.
The child that was abused but there is hope
in his heart.
How do I reconcile my desire with the feeling of despair?
That I can't save all the drowning
people in this boat.
How do I live with the passion,
only to feel the anguish,
that I can't carry you on my shoulders,
lift you to a safe place,
give you the dreams that you buried long ago.
How can I reconcile the desire with the inability,
of how vast the need is.
Trying to solve a puzzle,
that pieces have vanished to,
that pieces will never fit.
There is no harmony,
there are no simple answers.
There are band aids
but there is no cure.
I want to reject the notion that things will never change,
I want to remain firm and true
to my need to resolve.
My friend, the burden must be shared by all.
To rise from lack and emptiness to a better world.
My veins are rivers,
carrying pain.
I hurt for you my friend.



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A Moment Of Gratitude

Our days filled with chaotic wonder,
magical moments,
and moments of despair,
happiness a balance of sorrow.
Flower petals open,
the earth is kissed by the rain,
unlock your heart.
Live with gratitude,
the sun will whisper in your ear,
the evening stars will guide you home.
Plant seeds of kindness,
and your soul will dance.
Follow your bliss,
but don't abandon others.
Breathe,
feel the unity with the universe,
live your truth.
Live with gratitude each day.



http://dversepoets.com/ Meet us at the Pub where we share our thoughts and our heart. I want to wish all of you a happy and safe Thanksgiving.

The Peace We Make

A dove flies down from the heavens,
she sings a song of peace to those who listen.
Forget the games that people play,
men with power in their ivory towers.
They have forgotten how to dream,
how to inspire.
They have their hearts under lock and key,
burdened by the harsh reality.
They sweep the issues under the rug,
while making false statements,
and empty promises.
People wait for answers that never come,
they wait for the substance truth carries.
Open your palm and feed the world,
open your arms and shelter.
Evil flourishes when there is no action,
evil flourishes when no one is listening to the cries.
When you look the other way,
when your belly is full,
it's hard to imagine one that's empty.
Crimes against humanity take place every day,
while we wait and sleep on it.
The dove carries a twig in her beak,
an olive branch.
The dove dreams of peace and so do I.



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Rose Jelly Made By Rose

The glass jar clear and fragile,
like memories it holds of yesterday.
Road side wild roses awaited her,
on the way to Shinnecock Bay.
Dark red petals with intoxicating scent
Her spirit joyous, her hands gentle,
she made jelly sweet with love.
Grandma's hands, grandma's voice, grandma's grace.
The glass vessel clear and fragile,
summer recollections whisper of framed snapshots.
Hidden away in a dark cupboard,
twenty one years she's been gone,
yet the glass jar remains sealed,
saved memories timeless, honored and cherished.


This is dedicated to Nevart Sheshedian. My husband's wonderful grandmother.
He has shared countless memories about the great spirit that she possessed. This week he was tempted to open the jar . He wanted to taste her rose jelly once again. The jar is frozen shut by sugar.  He was afraid that it would break. This inspired me to write  this for Six Word Fridays where our word for this week is saving. Meet us here http://melissacamarawilkins.com/blog/2011/11/11/six-word-fridays-saving/ to read other offerings.

Words I Had Forgotten

I traced words on leaves,
with my fingers and my toes.
I scattered them in the orange grove,
and watched how they were swept into the heavens.
The fields nearby were Peridot  green,
inviting and unassuming,
I knelt down,
wishing the scars would heal,
and I can find them once again.
The sun shined with regret,
attempting to console my emptiness.
The wounds of life led me to abandon
the words I love as I buried them deep inside.
Poetry, my old friend,
you found me while I played hide and seek
with my words.
While I wrote them on napkins and receipts
and tossed them away.
Poetry you found me in the ocean,
on a moonlit night,
the tide was rising,
the fish were biting.
You found me and I could no longer hide.
I had forgotten how you heal me,
how you awaken my desire,
how you let my soul dance outside my body.


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The Game Of Life

Dust settled on the chessboard,
the queen and king no longer dance,
through the square green patches on the board.
The gardens are silent with sadness.
The little boy waited for them to awaken
and play hide and seek with the knight and the bishop.
He dreamt,
his mentor gone.
He remembered the wisdom taught,
the lessons of defeat ,
and the triumph of victory.
His grandpa's wisdom,
about the art of living.
His instruction of the game,
his kindness.
The boy became a man,
as he reached for the stars,
as he jumped over the hurdles of life,
he whispered  under his breath, " checkmate. This one is for you grandpa."

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