Summer
In honor of summer lurking around the corner, here is a poem I wrote a few years ago about summer vacation. See if you can figure out the metaphors. What does the poem mean to you? I can't wait to hear your ideas!
I ran into this lady who had a wand. She almost gave me everything I asked for… I watch the sea above, Waiting for the golden ticket To stamp my skin another shade— The permission to be free. And I know it’s quite alright To be lazy as a snail To just let time pass me right on by. My three month soundtrack begins again. Words and tunes so fresh. And their song and my life Tangle like woven grass, Indelibly trapped to my heart. My permanent memory guide singing along. I better not do something I’ll regret. Now I name myself late. Cause late is all I can be: Late to the morning and Late to the night. Somehow punctual to me. Maybe I’ll eat too much and Chase the sand forever. Dance in the sunlight, play with my friends, Watch a boy out my window, Hope my escape never ends. But if anything reminds me of time, It’s the beautiful yellow lady Laden with flowers, hot to the touch Laughing incessantly. She makes me think of that evil clock With the hands that never slow down The numbers that don’t reminisce And that time is allergic to me. I don’t want to go back. The cage is boring and cold empty and bitter. The guards strip us of our identity. Kidnap us from the beach Confiscate our barbecues. They make us all the same. They replace our love songs with tales of war and raids. Yellow lady have mercy! Tell the golden ticket to loiter. Tell him not to hide in the clouds. Tell him to last. Don’t let the fire get eaten by the breeze. And don’t take my laughter away. You know I’m so lazy and late. Unpreparedness is something I would hate. But she never really listens. I give nothing to her ear. I could scream from every mountain and still She wouldn’t hear. She yanks the golden sphere Right from the oceanic sky And she puts the moon in its place. My stamp begins to die. There goes my freedom Away on the stallion’s back. And captivity’s so tight on my wrists. This is where they send us for punishment, For basking too long in our bliss. They lock us in a cold mean cube. I don’t see the light of day. We only dream of the foggy past, And though we many plead and pray The clock, the stubborn clock, Always has its way.