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Poetry

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I used to sit in my rocking chair,

Wishing I was old

Like my grandmother who stared blankly

Towards lands unknown.

 

She would sit in silence

Before erupting in cheer,

Moving like me in a wooden rocking chair —

 

Forward,

Back,

Forward,

Back…

 

Back to the shame, and blame and fear towards a name —

Back to cold nights and dim lights and bloody fist fights…

 

Backward,

Forward,

Backward,

Forward…

 

Forward towards new beginnings,

Hoping and praying the past would stay behind —

Forward towards the golden sunrise,

And away from lies and wandering eyes…

 

Forward,

Back,

Forward,

Back…

 

What did she see when she stared up ahead?

How hard did the past haunt her withered head?

How beautiful was it to see an old friend,

Or hear a song you thought had ended?

 

What did she see when she stared into space?

How many friends wore a smile on their face?

Who haunted, and who flaunted?

Who was friend and foe?

Did the past ever leave her, or did it continue to unfold?

 

Will I be haunted like her, too,

Seeing visions of me and you?

Will I forget if I move up?

Or will you always be there ready to jump?

 

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by BrendaCova

Brenda Covarrubias is a journalist, poet and freelance editor. The majority of her work has centered around news and storytelling, but she is now branching out to more creative outlets. Business inquires should be directed to brendacova22@gmail.com.


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