Seasons In Waiting Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I.

And this could mean, a stationary battle

Freezing in the park bench,

With tongues that prattle

The brook gyrates with a subtle music

And the snow flakes dissipate on the frantic road

This could mean losing appetite

Or fading beyond clairvoyant sight

I do not know

A great perchance.

II.

So this could mean, a smoldering scowl

Or probably getting my skin burnt

Together with the rustling foliage

Where the sound of it tells the story

Of another hazy dream rid of lucidity

And so I will be unfrozen by the park bench

So this would mean, I would saunter endlessly

Until I reach a forked road

With a gray automobile juxtaposed near the stalwart black gates

I still do not know,

If there is a chance.

III.

And probably, this is tantamount to

Being buried underneath the rubble of the leaves

That carry the aroma of the earth,

Together with the laughter and the evening mirth

Of another playful thought meandering across

The autumn bloom

Probably this is what you fantasize about,

The monkey bars smelt like rust

And the willow trees seduce you, in a lustful dance

I think I might know,

I ought to know, a great perhaps.

IV.

The leaves will be swept away,

Driven astray, like tears after the infiltration

Of a nightmarish transcendence under the fluorescent

And the adolescents dance to the symphony of

One’s ire that will soon be engulfed by the entrenching rain

This is the first of the month, so you better clad yourself

With a skin so thick that lies couldn’t penetrate

And the deluge will soon swarm the streets

And the children will cringe in their sleep

Because of the rumbling thunder and bludgeoning lightning

Do you know? Because I still don’t,

Still, I know, it’s a great perchance.