a writing exercise from http://picturespoetryprose.blogspot.com/
and inspired by On The Turning Away by Pink Floyd
Walking through fields of gold
I step away from the shadow
Of life's hard, painful hold
and the sorrow inside
On the horizon there's light I see
Other worlds that are calling me
And so I walk towards the light
Through these fields of gold
Flying on eagle's wings
Though the sunrise is coming
And these words that he sings
melts the tears from my eyes
From up here I can see the stars
I can touch them, they aren't far
And way down below I see
The fields of gold
Such a simpler life
Without money or desire
Without greed, without strife
or the blood spilt from war
Is this only a dream I feel
Why couldn't this all be real
Or is it truly a vision
Of the fields of gold
Lying in a field of gold
I feel the sun touch my face
I no longer feel cold
or alone
I have hope that new days will bring
A happy end to all our suffering
And some day I will be
Leaving here to go home
-Cynthia Smallwood
January 2nd, 2008
Something happened down the street,
down at the edge of town.
The people cried for the police;
they couldn't hold them down.
I'm looking out my bedroom window,
listening for a sound
of something moving in the low
light down upon the ground.
They're coming from behind the fence
and just around the trees.
My dad says shoot them in the head
but they look just like me.
They look just like me.
My breath is stuck inside my lung,
my stomach don't feel right.
I'm losing my grip on the gun,
my head is feeling light.
My mother takes me by the hand;
says, "It will be all right.
Just stay here with your sister and
keep safe and out of sight."
They're coming from behind the fence
and just around the trees.
Your dad says shoot them in the head
but hey look just like me.
They look just like me.
I can hear my father crying
over all the roar
of the bang of bullets flying
just outside my door.
I can feel my sister shudder,
sitting on the floor.
I see the shadow of my mother.
I can't take it any more.
But they're coming from behind the fence
and just around the trees.
My dad said shoot them in the head
but they look just like me.
They look just like me.
I take my sister's hand and bring
her into the dark hall.
My parents have gone missing
and there's blood on all the walls.
I try to find them in our home.
I raise my voice to call.
I hear the deep gurgling moan.
We turn and see them all.
They're coming from behind the fence
and just around the trees.
My dad said shoot them in the head
but they look just like me.
They look just like me.
They seem to sense us standing there.
My sister froze in place.
One lunged and reached and grabbed her hair.
I saw his scary face.
Then I spotted on the stairs
my dad's 9mm Glock.
I snatch it and point it towards the pair
but I get an awful shock.
My sister's eerily inert,
her head between her knees.
I promised her she won't get hurt
my heart just skipped a beat.
Now she's rising from the dead;
she's reaching out for me.
My dad said shoot them in the head
but she looks just like me
and she's reaching out for me.
by Cynthia Smallwood
September 18th, 2007
I posted this poem on http://picturespoetryprose.blogspot.com/
on February 7th and won the Exceptional Writing Award for it. The prompt was called
Looking Up - Offer, in your writing, a creative hint about why you are looking up at this building.
Although I wrote this years ago, I feel strongly about it especially with the current situation we are facing in America today. It fit the prompt, so I decided to share.
This is my Living Poem:
Now she sits on the curb
her face just as pale and gray as the city
that surrounds her
she glances up towards the neon ads
through the snow white petals
which fall on her hair
staring blankly through the yellow flashes
which quickly pass her by
and the dimly decorated people
without a glance to her slouched body
which sat on the dirty pavement
and stared
and reminded herself
this is not how i planned myself
so many years ago
she lost everything she ever had
even her mind and her dreams were taken
now she sits alone,
staring past the pale red awning
of the cart selling pretzels
then something catches her eye through the rushing cars
an orange peel
which had been blown to the gutter
opposite her
and it rocked in the gentle wind
waving at her
teasing her under the windows of the dimming buildings
a discarded orange peel
just as useless and insignificant as she
abandoned and trapped in the womb of this dark city
she felt a silent sense of harmony
with the object
and then the wind changed
and the orange peel turned
it rushed through the traffic to greet her worn shoe
where it sat
and rocked,
patting her comfortingly
and after she smiled down at it
she looked past the colorful city
to the sky
as she wondered to herself
since when did poetry
have to rhyme?
Cynthia Smallwood
April 2004
This one was written about the same time I met Colette who told me I had a spirit guide and all that jazz. If you'd like more on that story, read the note (posted a long time ago) called "This is where I go". This poem is kind of like it.
Looks like the rain
decided on a vacation cause
it looks like a beautiful day
outside on the day that barely was
I pulled out my big dark boots
as I pretend you are beside me
and I venture through the bamboo shoots
through the jungle to the valley
There I decide to take a rest
and look up at that neverending sky
and count the clouds as they go past
as I'm looking up from the Meadow Rye
I'm catching sunbeams in this giant place
staring into blues, browns, and greens
this land and time I made my space
this transcendescant scene
The world is so big around me
and time is so long in the distance
It's here I feel my true innerpeace
basking in my insignificance
Cynthia Smallwood
April, 2004
This is a poem about suicide, though it wouldn't really seem that way.
"I want to go Home.."
said her lips as they part
her hair blew the wind
her eyes were the stars
she looked to the sky
as a tear drew a mark
"I want to go Home.."
were the words to her tune
that she played on her pipe
that she sang as she flew
and she spread out her arms
and she looked to the moon
"I want to go Home!!"
cried the girl to the night
her ears' pointed end
her eyes' constant light
but they stung from the poison
and she shut them up tight
"I want to go Home.."
was the last song she sang
for the beautiful world
to remember her name
as she became innocent
and peaceful again
Cynthia Smallwood
2003
Look around, you're not alone
Because everywhere at once is Home
This one was written for an ex boyfriend. He's not in my life anymore.
i'm sorry
i'm sorry
it's all i ever hear
what's everyone so sorry for?
it's not like i can feel.
my feelings
my feelings
they think that i'm so weak
how can they say i have no feelings?
when there's dropplets on my cheek
the tears
the tears
they're falling from my eyes
who's to say it doesn't hurt?
i can't stand all these lies
my heart
my heart
i can't take it anymore
when is all the pain to stop?
i'm sick of playing whore
a whore
a whore
i gave my life for men
where else can i find love i need?
but they always pretend
a fake
a fake
that's all they ever were
why didn't i see it at first?
but now my life is over
my life
my life
there's nothing you can say
except that you were sorry
that you treated me that way
Cynthia Smallwood
1/24/03
This was inspired by ex boyfriend and 9/11.
Here we are two frozen bodies
trapped
in the cold expenses of our
survival
I reach out to the river as if i could find something
there
as if i were searching
for a long lost brother
like a key like a sign
that everything will be
alright
we built this place where we can keep our shit
till
time
runs
out and the coldness
subsides
inside
i feel like the sun never shone so bright
upon the river that is our home
our burrow
our place where we can be.
free
i feel like the clouds like i could fly
among the certain shapes
which
entertain
me
each
day
as we lay by our home
in the sand
wondering what's really ours
and what
is
damned
Cynthia Smallwood
2002
