Tsani Jones

Rookie (May 17,1970 / Atlanta, Georgia, United States)

Regeneration Of The Child - Poem by Tsani Jones

The answer was unknown,
Undetermined.
A star lost forever
In a microcosmic
Fishbowl.

The little thought,
He wondered, he waited.

'Come with us! ' a band
Murmured and marched
As tiny ants across
A table.

The little boy did not hear them,
He could not perceive order.

Rote and rank
Of uselessness,
Disfigured logic poised
As Quasimodo in a sundress.
During winter.

'Follow us, ' a mob cried,
'We have a stick,
And a book, and an answer.'

The little boy trembled,
And ignored them,
They beat children with the stick,
Nailed their hands to the book.

Darkness fell,
And the little boy was cold.
No hands to warm the touch,
No embrace to calm him.

The little boy moved rocks,
Searched trees,
Listened to fools portend his future,
Idiots babble madness.

Yet the little boy
Pondered the question,
Raked the pain with
Grimy little fingernails.

Tiny tears of ice
Embedded in a fabric
Of shame, winter, and
Frozen skin.

And the question remained.

Stasis of the moment
Drawn out as Chinese
Water torture
Ina congealing mind.

The miracle unfolded slowly,
First a trickle
Along with the advent
Of new.

A horizon erupted
In Dutch tulips,
This mindscape broken
And fertile.

The little boy waded
Through a stream of
Bubbles and soft soap,
An emanating scent of trellis roses.

The answer was creeping,
But the question, lingering,
As the soft kiss
He knew from a foreign fog.

A sharp crack of dawn
Woke the residents
As majesty clothed
The little boy,

The longing melted
And dripped from his nose,
Drip-drop,
Onto a thirsty concrete below.

Rushing waters of glory
Sprang violently from
Unbidden wells of
A wounded soul.

And he had his answer.
It was a veiled crux of reality-
The little boy was more
Than a spot on a dot
on a square on a map.

He just added water,
And grew.
He saw his mirror,
And there were two.

I give this answer to you:

Out of a fertile crescent
Came God, came truth,
Came salvation.
You are the little boy,
And you are his answer.

The ache is the enigma,
A pain of passage,
The futility of being
Your own worst enemy.

The question?
'Who will save me? '


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Poem Submitted: Monday, May 22, 2006



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