Unconventional Beauty Found in the Underbelly of Suburbia

Dead trees stand tall

Beige brittle limbs stiff as dried out bones

Silver inside the screaming sky

Snaking between evergreens

Darker than Hooker’s Green in pure white

Mourning.

Time wasting but what

Could that mean when

Time is just a social

Construct created to

Give the soul some senseless

Semblance of meaning.

 

Chain link fence pressed against

Trees evergreen turning tangerine

Littered with shattered glass

Discarded bikes and empty plastic bottles.

Tawny grass laid flat under

January’s last temper tantrum

Creatures dead and barely hanging on

Crawl just beneath the surface

Pulsing with the pull of

Mother Moon.

 

Spirits shift in a kaleidoscope

Eyes rolling ‘round a bird bath

Fallen to the transference

Of a saccharine strangers sight.

Sheer winsomeness of all eukarya

Wonder and reverence for

Onion grass and neon bulbs

Bursting full between

Cement and plastic domiciles.

Smiles in skinned knees stinging

With sidewalk chalk and gravel rocks

Point of view is

Thrown through and back to

The fragile sense of self

And memory that inhabits me.

 

Again or for the first time

There is beauty in the world

Outside of unseen cities

And the unconventional.

 

Just one question I have to ask

“Who will remember us

When we’re gone?

Who will be left when

The world falls apart?”

 

Our incessant destruction

Of Gaea’s green

And gracious expanse

What’s been done

Cannot be fixed

As there is no backspace

On man-made “natural” disasters.

 

So maybe memory isn’t the best thing to leave behind.

And maybe beauty isn’t so tightly confined in nature and surroundings.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
My country
Our world

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