Saving Grace 1.0 ( A Modern Poem)

SaigonDeManila By SaigonDeManila, 22nd Jan 2015 | Follow this author | RSS Feed | Short URL http://nut.bz/2hcn23li/
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Society & Issues

A story of girl who had all the miseries of life and found solace and eventual good fotune from a rag doll who witness all her travails. This is my first collaborated poem and we"re still looking for publication house for e-book or traditional print.

A Wiki Poem

This following was authored by three different minds and country of origin. Karen Newell of USA, Maria Disley of Britain and yours truly from the Philippines..
This was inspired by the accompanied artwork. of the same title -" Saving Grace
"

SAVING GRACE

Find
them quickly,
no stopping until
you think you may
have found one, when
you do, you may stop, hold it up
to the mind and if it sparkles, pricking
all the senses, you may sit on your haunches
in the shallow inky water, or lie right where you are,
in soft bruised mud, above the buried ancient cities and
listen to the poem's secrets.. ancient trash or fresh, anyone’s
secrets are gold, as the next meal unfolds. But this is not a time for
eating, for filling the observer’s mouth, but silence. Send the timekeepers home,
hold the pendulums, put on your sandals and carry your brightest poems like starry
candles to the cleared fertile earth where once, fruit pickers had filled their blue juice stained sacks,
left tracks where they had scuffed the surface with their bee like movements,
made scarved paths for bearers to console one another among
jewelled shrubs where only butterflies silently shimmer
with wings of gossamer as transparent as long,
present memories...and just listen
to the colour
of it all!
Feel
the shades
swallow your
shoulders...nostalgic
observer...shiver for a minute
...as earth meets mud..mud..mud.
There, where even a rubbish heap will glow
like a garden, with the merest gesture
of loving kindness in this
piece of Mother Earth.
The pile of garbage
smelling dirt,
where young
fragile hands relieve
the old men who’ve left
their dreams as untested Zen.
Fresh blood brings new strength of hope,
meeting both ends just to cope.
Simple pleasures can jolt one's face.
An old doll is counted
As a child’s saving grace,
it fills her heart, her dreams,
imparts distant images of butterfly wings, trinkets, treasures and shiny things
...far from her life as a scavenger. And, afterwards, from the observers spot,
the hilltop, the colored rags and wrangled tin, glistens not unlike the old fruit workers.
Their juicy crops, the corpses now laying in the hollows of their cradling roots.
Above, the roots of rags, the rootings of rattling metal bits, the roots of work
Of scavengers, of unrest, survival, the roots of courage and determination
when all’s you have to hold onto is an object, the colour of sky, or a tuft of grass,
the Question why? Reflections in a shard of glass, where time dissipates
and all’s you see is a strange face, a small hand,
and think you hear a marching band...
the sound Of hope in the child’s mind.
Clinging to her grandpa’s wrinkled hand,
clenched there, a dollar for his find of cans.
Hot noodles from junk plastic they sold,
collected through Midnight, winter cold,
while mother shared election
news of manifold,
and smiles
lightened
at the
makeshift
table in twofold.
Sitting first, the angel-child
with doll in hand whom she named Grace,
begins communion of praise for eventful day at Smokey Mountain,
skipping school for the joy obtained, unmindful of the fumes that morning,
better than street begging. Although to outsiders it may seem they live a broken life,
a tainted dream, the doll named Grace, would be the one to see, the bosom of a loving family does exist amongst the streets of scrap heaps, and what could matter more in this world than to be cherished by a waif’s heart,
by this little treasure hunting girl? And from the observer’s hilltop, away from the lowest point;
the sea of cloth and tin, like seaweed and shells rattling in to the shore with treasures
...galore! A soul screams at the sight, at the plight, at the light in
the man's mind, to be so kind to one so small, to comfort her
in her adult role, provider. A soul screams tears and joy,
a soul screams for all scavengers whether in suits,
sorting emails, or overalls sorting screws, or hard hats
sorting men, or waders sorting fish...hard work is life,
no work is no life, sorting is organizing, is designing,
is training, is choosing, is creating, is...
understanding.

"..people polinating the shrubs of cloth "

Watching from the hilltop,
the observer notices little difference
from factory cloths, the glint of the needles,
the clatter of shuttles, the snip of scissors...
the collection of cottons in so many colors...
the boxes of buttons, all sorted and spilled...
the workers like bees between aisles of machines.
The buzz of work, people pollinating the shrubs of cloth,
the petals of metal, the blooming hillocks of rainbowed
spillages, notice little difference if you rule out money
rule out disease, political unease notice little
difference ruling out comfort, or shelter
or wealth education, good health,
notice little difference from
the grace of the girl,
the doll,
and
her
world...
The dump truck roars, announcing its return, slowly marching into the moonlit dregs.
To a kingdom ruled next to filth, they’ll burn on a beautiful wistful night under an
elegant moon that’s unusually light, a doll in her hand on a dreamy night.
The observer stands to yawn, to stretch in the forgetting of time
and place, to notice the sketch of a new moon, no half scythe
swinging in the sky and gone is the sun, all seamless
are the dyes of color, all one, but tiny bits try
tiredly to force a moonlit wink.
Bones ache from sitting idly
on a distant hill watching
the workers and reminiscing,
the in-distinctive dull rag mounds, the footpath’s
trail looks altogether a dreamy landscape route under
a sky where watchful stars do hang and shoot to make rubbish look
like dark boxed jewels, and scavengers, as slow as shadows now, huddled
up like dark carved dolls or cardboard shepherds for the nativity, pushed by
a Prometheus hand along the path...the hamster wheel...eternity...infinity?
The
observer
turns away.
Leaves the hill,
its silhouettes, which
almost scare him half to death,
to walk another path, just another,
with regrets, but hope for Grace, lest he for one forgets in haste.

(to be concluded)



©All rights reserved
by:SaigondeManila,Disley, Karen Newell


Art Credit: "Saving Grace" "Filther Feeders" by Paul Hilario,
"Testing the Water" by Maria Disley
Source: Fineartsamerica.com



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Tags

Dolls, Literature, Poetic Devices, Poetic Justice, Poetic License, Poetic Prose, Poetic Verse, Poetical Form, Poetical Musings, Poetry, Poverty, Social Issues

Meet the author

author avatar SaigonDeManila
Dear friends and foes: I am a teacher, a poet, an artist, self-published author on art & poetry, CSN Life Skill coach and an international marketer.

See my archives @ edgardecastro.blogspot.co.id

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Comments

author avatar M G Singh
22nd Jan 2015 (#)

Great post

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author avatar SaigonDeManila
23rd Jan 2015 (#)

Thank you for appreciating Madan!

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author avatar Carol Roach
23rd Jan 2015 (#)

I love the format, I don't know if I could do that

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author avatar SaigonDeManila
23rd Jan 2015 (#)

Hi Carol the format is only a fraction of what it was intended, it was a huge (mega) tetratys cum shape poetry. That can only be accommodated in landscape orientation and centered alignment that will depict a calvary like hill and an opposite shadow that looks like a chalice..i will put the link or attached of the image today.

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author avatar Utah Jay
23rd Jan 2015 (#)

One of the very best reads I have come across here on wikinuts...Well done.

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author avatar SaigonDeManila
24th Jan 2015 (#)

Thank you for your kind words Utah Jay...likewise your collections and repertoire of topics are amazing!

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author avatar Aurora
8th Mar 2016 (#)

Wow what a poetry...great read!

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