Poetry2ponder's Blog

“Thieves” by Trevor Witt

Thieves,
Taking because they can,
Because they
Want to
Need to
Because they
Were not taught better
Know no other way.

Stolen hat,
Bright blue,
Which meant so much to me.

I got it back eventually.

Stolen car,
Old Honda,
My only way around town.

It was never found.

The pen in my hand,
From the restaurant Eureka,
It was an accident,

But I did not return the pen.

“My memory is full of holes (that my mind could never grasp)” by Trevor Witt

My memory is full of holes;
My picture of my past is never complete,
With questions about my childhood,
And less salient curiosities –
My breakfast last Wednesday.
Only a week ago,
I was in a different state,
With more joy, and less confusion,
On an alternate plane of existence,
But I took the plane back
From LA to LA,
New Orleans, Louisiana to Lost Angeles,
City of forgotten angels,
City of dreams, city of falling through the cracks.
Back in the real world,
The music of the birds is my comfort.
There is noise all around –
Traffic, chit-chatting, and the car engine humming –
But I dare not make a sound.
The birds are the only real music here,
All the jazz has died,
Because people refuse to hear,
The feelings bubbling up.
The trumpet and the saxophone,
Playing off the beat,
Like my memories of dancing feet,
Distorted by feelings and gaps,
The music brings healing,
That my mind could never grasp.