at the end of every summer
When you are a kid, you do not worry about things like work and bosses and bills. How nice.
photo by dsnake1
at the end of every summer...
sometimes at night we hear the sound of metal
against metal and in the morning there will be
blood on the asphalt, the gravel. maybe a parang
on the railroad tracks. and when nights got sweaty
there's the thump of running feet through thin walls
and we know the plainclothes are on a raid. if we mind our
stuff, don't be curious, poke our noses out, we will be okay.
and in the day, we village kids gather together
to play at adults. we play 'police and thieves'
and we bring our own toy guns and bats and knives
so most of the time nobody wants to be the thieves
because if you are caught you wait ages in the sun
for comrades to tag and rescue you, if they come at all
and also the cops love to manhandle you when you're caught.
oh yes and that was police brutality before it became news.
08/07/2014
**********
At the end of every summer you can't
remember the last time you wore pants.
*
from "Amy Check On My Square Inch of Land" by Farrah Field
The title is a line from the above poem. This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in mysterious ways.
Shared on Poetry Pantry #210 at Poets United.
© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014
at the end of every summer...
sometimes at night we hear the sound of metal
against metal and in the morning there will be
blood on the asphalt, the gravel. maybe a parang
on the railroad tracks. and when nights got sweaty
there's the thump of running feet through thin walls
and we know the plainclothes are on a raid. if we mind our
stuff, don't be curious, poke our noses out, we will be okay.
and in the day, we village kids gather together
to play at adults. we play 'police and thieves'
and we bring our own toy guns and bats and knives
so most of the time nobody wants to be the thieves
because if you are caught you wait ages in the sun
for comrades to tag and rescue you, if they come at all
and also the cops love to manhandle you when you're caught.
oh yes and that was police brutality before it became news.
08/07/2014
**********
At the end of every summer you can't
remember the last time you wore pants.
*
from "Amy Check On My Square Inch of Land" by Farrah Field
The title is a line from the above poem. This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in mysterious ways.
Shared on Poetry Pantry #210 at Poets United.
© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014
Labels: children, heartlands, landscape, life, Poetry, Singapore
posted by dsnake1 at 11:09 PM
9 Comments:
children are always wise and have a sixth sense...
Ha, I would much prefer the childhood game to life's reality in this regard. No loss of life!
I can hear the running footsteps outside at night.....and love the picture of the children playing at being adults during the day. Smiled at the "last time I wore pants" line........
Very scary, and well written. We never played cops & robbers!! We played army or cowboys and indians... we were never captured we were just killed. Getting captured or maimed was an adult reality/nightmare for me.
I liked your photo and "not wearing pants" in the summer :-)
Always a pleasure reading your stuff!
ZQ
scary..
The loss of innocence. Poignant verse today!
when i think about some of the games we played growing up...it was our reality...and scary and sad that kids learn to play games by what they see as that reality...at times...
Sumana,
oh yes! :)
Mary,
but then, the child grows up and becomes an adult. :(
Sherry,
i spent much of my childhood in a shanty town (somewhat like a favela, if you are following the world cup.), so there's lots of odd things going around. :)
ZQ,
we were not as wild as you and your gang, killing your playmates. :D
the photo is part of a wall mural on a pedestrian underpass in the city center. i am pretty civilised now, taking photos and writing stuff. :)
always looking forward to read your comments.
Natasa,
it's quite scary at times, that place i used to lived in when i was a kid. it's a hotbed for vice and other unpleasant activities. i wrote this poem recalling the times spent there.
Audrey,
we were pretty street-smart. :)
Brian,
it's scary, isn't it? children are always impressionable, so it's like walking a tightrope.
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