By: Tarringo Vaughan

This poem is a memory...

This poem is about/a place I use to call my home;
a place where this new silence I see was once the laughter
of hope and pride. A place where my young feet
use to run in the freedom winds of innocence
but now as I look down this narrow street
I do not recognize the sorrow/ there is emptiness
as the price of destruction has diminished once proud
eyes and now there is no sun that rises about this sky
just clouds that have dampened a tough cement
into a muddy paradox of nothingness.

I use to run up and down this paved road singing
the sweet tunes of whistled happiness
manipulating older ears into their own sweet remembrance
of how their time here use to be. The older folk
always renewed history in telling the stories of their younger years
and now my own proud tears
bring this street back alive.

These lampposts have lifted their rust and fresh lights
shine down upon the feet of bicycles ready to smile again
and faded graffiti walls have washed themselves
of decay and now reach out to embrace
trees that have lost their names; these same trees
have found their identities again and now sparkle
in the sunlight of those golden days before crime
kidnapped the aspirations of many dreams;
before poverty took over the stage of hope
and before time took away the history
of a neighborhood that once held hands
upon this street of unity.

This poem is a memory
This poem is about /a place that will never be again
that place I used to call my home but my feet
still cry for this street because my heart
has never abandoned the beauty that nurtured
my growth; the beauty once absorbed by the foundation
of these sidewalks now dismantled
by the migration of everything that made life here

Tarringo Vaughan © 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan - The Mind of a Creative Writer

Daily Quote: weltschmerz \VELT-shmerts\, noun:
Sentimental pessimism; sorrow that one feels and accepts as one's necessary portion in life.
Cohen confused his mood with his chronic weltschmerz. He spoke at great length on the vicissitudes of a sensitive spirit, his dissatisfaction, the inadequacy of this sphere as far as he was concerned.
-- Daniel Fuchs, Summer in Williamsburg

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Posted by V. Mahfood - 2011
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