THE LIGHT RAIL
Graffiti stains spatter rustic buildings, flattened tires, broke down washers, clothes lines covered with unsoiled laundry
Oil stained Plexiglas is where these sights are found with idle chatter as apparent as the green in the clay soil
I imagine this jungle could come alive with elephants and giraffes towering above
Clouds wait to fertilize this stomping ground where rain has washed the dirty faces of street dwellers and blood stained leaves of grass
Walt Whitman, right?
These verses I find in my jaded head, full of imagination to shade me from the sunrise bring me satisfaction as my aching feet cross the paths where tourists have been
This place allows me to find peace
Relieving me of the complaints mustering on my clove scented breath
Once again, I find myself reminded of my Old Kentucky Home, where men wear white sheets to cover the hatred they bear
Where segregation still exists in back door towns and there is no rest for the folks with many hungry mouths to feed
Black lung shadows the coal miner's, as if the grim reaper himself is passing through
Condemned houses holding families of cockroaches nibbling on the food stamp crumbs its occupants deliver
Empty cans of Milwaukee's Best and PBR litter the lawns of trailer parks
Children play on locust-infested trees, shielding them from the belted beatings they endure
The Bluegrass State, a flight away on a plane whose seatbelts know nothing about one size fits all
My writer's block ends here, in a city filled with presidential monuments, Vietnam memorials, holocaust museums, streets covered with culture I embrace
Arms wide open, I write in my journal, my thoughts and memories that lie dormant in my substance controlled mind ...
I remember home and still find myself detached from family and the hand full of friends calling themselves devoted, yet deceit is the underlying intent, so I forget my birthplace and the memories that haunt me
I remember home, contradicting myself, I remember home.
about the author
Holly Haufler is an aspiring writer collecting dust, and an avid reader, who forgot how to. She has been writing since she was 12, a poet with no explanation, barely understanding self. Poetry has led her to a path to healing, self-destruction, and madness. She is a poet, simply.