Black Poetry : The Handkerchief

Discussion in 'Black Poetry - Get Your Flow On!' started by Harry Hyman, Apr 1, 2016.

  1. Harry Hyman

    Harry Hyman Well-Known Member MEMBER

    United States
    Oct 31, 2003
    Likes Received:
    North Carolina
    The Handkerchief

    I walked down the stairs into the bright city street
    to the store for a brew and a smoke.
    Huddled in a corner of the smashed landscape
    was a rubbled human fragment that was broke.
    He looked like a drab bundle of dirty clothes,
    all torn and shredded at the seams,
    littered with the residue of broken battles and
    cracked glass of shattered dreams.

    He began his dying early through agonizing routes
    of disappointment, disillusion and shame,
    ending up last place on pavement searching
    for that license tag of fleeting Fame.
    Great men leave marks of their fragmentary existence.
    On the tapestry of his life were blots,
    discolored blemishes he used as yardsticks to measure
    the man he was not.

    With his hand extended, he looked in my eyes
    and asked for any spare change.
    I pulled out some quarters and a handkerchief
    which he took and said “Thanks all the same.”
    I said there was Sorcery in the hanky,
    which he viewed all folded and neat,
    and if he mentally rubbed the dark spots of his life,
    he could liberate himself from the streets.
    Cynicism in his eyes heard Truth in my voice.
    A glimmer of Hope did fuse.
    I nodded with assurance and waved goodbye
    saying “Try it! So, what’ve you to lose?”

    Halfway down the block, I turned to see
    his hand rise up in the air,
    that handkerchief rubbing some phantom blot
    engulfed by his captured stare.
    Several days later, I passed that place
    but a new guy sat in his booth
    who said my guy rose up one day heading
    home to his kids in Duluth.
    Then I walked down the block but turned to witness
    something inspiring and rare.
    That new guy was rubbing, with handkerchief in hand,
    some blot in the air with “his” stare.

    A Man can rise from a cellar to a summit
    giving birth to a brand new start
    with a sprinkle of Belief and a dash of Desire
    and the Magic in the human heart.

    Last edited: Apr 6, 2016
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  2. baller

    baller Well-Known Member MEMBER

    Jan 28, 2001
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    the near north
    kinda like the placebo effect, sometimes the soul just needs something to hold on believe in.

    loving the magic of this PEACE.

    keep writing, Double H.