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Three Poems

The document is a collection of poems about nature, aging, and connecting with others. It describes observing nature on a mountain, the monotony of office life, caring for an aging grandparent, and using music to connect with a child in the hospital.

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Jeffrey Lee
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95 views3 pages

Three Poems

The document is a collection of poems about nature, aging, and connecting with others. It describes observing nature on a mountain, the monotony of office life, caring for an aging grandparent, and using music to connect with a child in the hospital.

Uploaded by

Jeffrey Lee
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
Available Formats
Download as PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
Download as pdf or txt
Download as pdf or txt
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Immortal Mountain

Morning rays peek over the horizon,


bathing the mountain in marmalade silk.
My eyes close, my mind clears,
welcoming Natures embrace.
Taking a deep breath,
I float off
and awaken in a secret world.
I am the mountain, awakened each morn
by the suns warm glaze,
a familiar friend
who gently tugs me from my slumber.
The green carpet reveals itself,
stretching forth in a sea of serenity.
Suddenly
the soft canopy
explodes in a fluttering of wings,
as the birds unabashedly announce themselves to the world.
Are their antics a sign of young love,
or merely news of the morning meal?
Only they know the answer,
for I am only given
a sweet, superficial song.
Air lightly caresses my face,
soothing my sunburn.
Oh, how savage Summer has been to me,
deceiving me with her beauty!
Wind bears the aroma of fresh rain on aged bark,
sprinkled with hints of sweet wildflower.
I breathe in the sharp, crisp air,
a euphoric sting,
commanding me to live.
Dare I open my eyes again?
Or shall I remain in this blissful realm,
existing in a bubble of tranquility.
Free, like the mountain,
from Times everlasting hold.

Will I be Remembered?
The sirens wail in agony,
with my pale body
trapped by the gurney
in a vice-like grip.

Trudging in on Monday,
the maze of cubicles,
decorated with
the same superficial smiles and
the stench of suffocating perfume.

Shuddering, ragged breaths.


Tears trickle,
a cold sweat
to douse the pain.
A single thought plagues
my mind:

Into my corner, my second home


with walls that entrap,
allowing only
the pitter-patter of keyboards
and echoes of a raspy cough
to escape.

Will I be remembered?

Feet sweep the tired floor,


Monday melts into Friday,
dragging along past days and months,
blending into an endless, Sisyphean chore.

Throat tightens.
Memories
from a forgotten film,
faintly flicker
like gasping embers
of a dying fire:
Familiar bite
of charcoal toast
as I methodically gnaw
at the tasteless cardboard.
Shut window blinds
seal me in darkness,
bars of
my domestic prison.
The beginning of
just another day.
Will I be remembered?
A swarm of strangers besiege the exit.
Mechanical doors groan open
with an irritated sigh.
One by one,
we mindlessly march,
only preoccupied
with our digital companions.
Plugged into our own reality,
hearing, feeling only the sounds we choose.
Alone in a sea of souls.
Will I be remembered?

Will I be remembered?
White light shines brightly above,
frantic voices cut through the haze,
were losing him!
A glimmer of warmth
grasps my palm.
I peek into the chaos
of scrambling blue scrubs,
but catching my eye,
his golden locks,
perching softly to my side.
The noise fades,
leaving only
the innocent motion
of his lips,
barely making out
the answer.
I will always remember you, Grandpa.

My Playdate
I peek in the hospital window,
decorated with toys from childhood past:
Winnie-the-Pooh
waving with chubby fingers,
Buzz Lightyear
flexing with bulging arms.
I make my grand entrance,
with my own instruments of play,
tempting even the shiest of souls.
Risk and Battleship
oh, what a blast!
I step forward with my offerings,
eager for laughs and squeals,
but he stares past,
continuing to sway,
not looking my way.
His parents offer
a forlorn smile as I retreat,
my head bowed,
realizing my favorite things
are not fit for this King.
Soon I return, bearing a gift
with rainbow buttons,
glowing, flickering,
pulsing to its
own beat.
I set the strange
toy before him;
he stares with suspicion,
poking at it
like unwanted broccoli.
Suddenly
the silence is punctured by
the familiar sounds of
twinkling stars and little lambs.
He lurches back
with a yelp,
but soon recovers
from the shock.
He leans in with trembling fingers,
lulled by the lullabies.

I sit quietly as he presses the buttons,


again and again.
The sweet tune plays on without end.
All the while,
his face plastered with a wide grin,
his eyes glitter, just like his musical toy;
he even chirps along,
for hes finally found a friend who understands.
Is he a bird, caged in without a light,
or is he a bird, free in flight?

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