Spoiler
I never know where to put my poems... Lol...
Can somebody review, please? I don't even care if it's a critique and pointing out all my mistakes. I wanna know what I need to do to make it better then.
The first line of this poem has been edited.
Can somebody review, please? I don't even care if it's a critique and pointing out all my mistakes. I wanna know what I need to do to make it better then.
The first line of this poem has been edited.
I watch the hot storm in the afternoon, where
the ground is steaming like my grandmother's cooking. I
inhale the warm raindrops, and like bread baking
it is stuffy and full.
Every pitter and patter of the rain
reminds me of my father's typewriter keys
in the early morning dark. He was a
magician. Every sound he was converting-
the pa of a k, and the stuck psh of the s-
into words and wonders.
I used to knock my budding toes
and drum-roll them across the desk side
in preparation for the sun.
My father's fingers would mindlessly
wave at my feet,
as if he heard more than the simple da-dump they were creating.
My body, tucked into a ball- an imitation
of the blooming star rising over a window sill horizon-
would stop
and stare.
It was then, finally, that my father would
resign from the rainwater keys
and stop and stare
with me.
And in those hot minutes of the morning, where
the ground would seem to waver like tides
in greeting to the sky flower, we would sit,
comfortable and full.
