Thursday, January 20, 2011

Poem For the Day #2


37

my old friends have all turned to melodies--
remembered only during memories when their laughs rang loudest,
when their presence was as dependable as four beats per measure,
in time to a rhythm that  matched our movements, reminding us we were in synch, that weather fair nor stormy would dictate the climate when they’d come calling
my old friends are distant points on my mind’s timeline
faded against landscapes in memory that collect collaged parts of experience
like a tattered scrapbook that is worn yet treasured

by Khadijah Z. Ali-Coleman

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