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Magic

From The Tempest by William Shakespeare, found poem and image by Erica Gerald Mason

Magic a found poem by Erica Gerald Mason at Écririons

 

Magic

and

heavenly music

work their

charm

upon the night.

 

She Is Mine

ecririons_post7She Is Mine

You can see it in his eyes.

You can sense it in his words. 

I know what is on his mind when he says “I don’t know what’s wrong”.

You can hear his regret when he says his goodbyes.

Another man fell for her like I did time ago.

 

Pig, Basted, Son of a gun.

Calling him half-hearted insults won’t gain me much.

I could put myself in his shoes and I should hold no grudge.

But my heart only yields one thing.

She Is Mine.

She Is Mine.

But in the end he is just another man like me

 

I feel for the man yet I can’t take that his eyes are on my pride.

Call me selfish but the fact she makes someone else’s heart pound makes my feet cramp. 

He should have stayed in the shadows.

He should have been strong and kept it to himself.

He knew ain’t got no right but he did it anyway.

 

Pig, Basted, Son of a gun.

Calling him half-hearted insults won’t gain me much.

I could put myself in his shoes and I should hold no grudge.

But my heart only yields one thing.

She Is Mine.

She Is Mine.

But in the end he is just another man like me

 

I saw her first, I loved her first.

I made her laugh and wiped away her tears.

I brought her flowers and sweets, I wrote her kind words.

So what do he think he got that can possibly win her heart?

It doesn’t matter anyway because he ain’t got any chance!

 

Pig, Basted, Son of a gun.

Calling him half-hearted insults won’t gain me much.

I could put myself in his shoes and I should hold no grudge.

But my heart only yields one thing.

She Is Mine.

She Is Mine.

But in the end he is just another man like me

 

He is just another man on the same train I traveled on most of my life.

He stands just three stops apart waiting for the same train and wishing for my seat

I know he never meant to go down this road, most certainly don’t. 

Now that we are here anyways let’s get it over with.

Shake each other’s hand, nod our heads and walk away.

 

Pig, Basted, Son of a gun.

Calling him half-hearted insults won’t gain me much.

I could put myself in his shoes and I should hold no grudge.

But my heart only yields one thing.

She Is Mine.

She Is Mine.

She Is Mine.

But in the end he is just another man like me.

Just another man like me.

Another man like me.

Just another man like me.

Dreamer – a Found Poem

 

From Romeo & Juliet by William Shakespeare, found poem and image by Erica Gerald Mason

Dreamer a found poem by Erica Gerald Mason at Écririons

 

I dream

of my

amorous

paramour.

The Life That Is – Chapter 3 – The Boy with the Hat

ecririons_post6A little down the road, when my mind was in its right place again and I was ready to start on a fresh. In an ordinary school just like so many others, to me too it ended as so much more. The place I learned who the boy in the mirror really were. The place I grew into something else, something new. To me it is the place where I started to think of all the things I am, instead of the things I’ll never be.

The story starts out small. I was a kid with a hat and big dreams but little knowledge of the world I had been thrown into and the things to come. Tough times lied ahead but with time I earned friends and being safe started to feel a little safer and with those odds there isn’t much that can’t be overcome.

However as it would conveniently show, my old friend and nemesis wouldn’t offer me much of a break before striking down upon me once more. Only this time it hit right where it stings the most. She opened my eyes on a regular Wednesday.

The bell had rung and the classrooms had been abandoned. It had been her turn to have the job of swiping the classrooms floor clean. I was simply late at packing but when I finally stood in the door ready to go home, I suddenly didn’t feel so ready to leave just yet. I looked at her and realized that the ugly duckling from my visit last summer, didn’t quite seem like an ugly duckling no more.  A first move would be made in from of an offering of help with the floors. What seemed like a perfect start on grand love story, but unfortunately she replied “No I’m good”.

What was to follow is a far forgotten story, yet still floating around in the back of our minds along with the myths and what ifs that it created. Once in a while we all stand still for a moment and think back to that time, wondering what actually went down. All I can say is that it was a long walk home.

Although I had lost twice or more to my old nemesis I can’t say I never gained, they do say third time is the charm. One wet windy winter I did finally get that one kiss I had been drying to have for so long. Her hair was black with a strip of blood-red, only a mere glimpse of a burning fire to come. I wouldn’t say nothing good came to us but as humans we tend to only remember the things that hurt, just like the first time you came too close and burned yourself on the fireplace.  In the end her hair and all turned to the unforgettable red and she cut my heart out and stepped on it but there are enough stories about such things to last you till next winter.

They say you never quite forget a true love no matter how small of a high school flirt it might have been. They also say the first one is the one you’ll always hold dear in your mind, for me that was never the case. Sometimes I think to myself why it is like that? I guess that is a question that takes a bigger man than me to answer. Deep inside I know I loved her then, now and always, never quite in the same way but never quite gone either. All because of that crazy stupid thing called love.

(Header: Unsplash.com)

“The Art of Losing Isn’t Hard to Master”

-The Art of Losing Isn't Hard to Master-

 

My soul begs forgiveness from her pastor.
Lips wrap around the words, glass-empty eyes
stare through church walls laced with cracks and plaster.

Each hand will fall away, each heart
has left me to decipher truth from lies.
My soul begs forgiveness from her pastor.

Memory, and pictures too, wilt like dying aster,
that powdered death-scent lingers while I eulogize
and disguise my cracks with a coating of fresh plaster.

Love, in dying, doesn’t always seek hereafter;
and I didn’t love so much as fraternize,
so my heart begs forgiveness from her pastor.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master
or so goes the lady Bishop reprise
I recite with each trowel stroke, laying on the plaster.

No fruit from the hours of prayer I muster
will end my penance – this I realize.
So my heart begs forgiveness from her pastor,
and daily, covers up her cracks with coats of plaster.


 

Title and italicized line from “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop
Header image credit Compfight stock photos, Creative Commons use

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