John Nelson


Sunday - Poem by John Nelson

Sunday
Mornings with dew and
Ponds bearing fowl:
A heart-shaped
man-made pool of
Cess:
feathers and shit and and sloppy human trash,
Bright green algae caked on the surface;
As a child I would arrive
And leave;
Between I would toss stale bread
And run,
Giggling,
when the billed birds
Jumped at their treat:
Feathers flying in flux.
I'd count the quacks,
Tell my mother the number
And she'd laugh and smile and
Live and love,
The faraway look in her eye
Replaced with maternal fondness
For but a moment.
(Even then I knew
The way life went for lovers...)

Always a strange one,
An ugly duckling,
(quite literally) ,
With red face and calico bill,
Fancy feathers, orange feet
Of scaled webbing,
Amongst the mirrored many:
I, as a boy, saw this outcast
As a kindred spirit:
We were the different ones,
And I treated him first,
Always.

As an adult this morning,
I am still the different one;
Odd man out, perhaps,
Though I trust that honesty
Is honest,
And
I sit and wish my friend was here,
Likely with hat:
She'd stroke my wrist and palm
And pop my fingers
And I'd caress the small of her
Back
With a smile,
A smile I reserve for her.
I'd tell her the memories I hold
Of this foul pond,
She would listen in feigned,
(Perhaps) ,
Interest
and I'd know,
But I would not care,
For she would be with me,
And cares seem to go
By the wayside
In her Divine presence, at least
From my Regal point of view.

Even now a child streaks past
My post, my bench,
A trail of flowering cosmos behind her.
She is ribboned and tasseled,
Of course,
As she has dressed herself
In her tiny mirror,
No one to impress,
But impressing everyone;
Nothing to worry about,
Worrying everyone:
(Don't run, little bird! you stray towards the edge, and that water is cold and unclean!)
I see myself,
My own boy self
(Osh-Kosh-B'gosh overalls,
Dinosaur tee,
Black All-Stars and
Plain blue cap)
Running with her, chasing
And fleeing and
Chasing and
Fleeing:
A fun game;
Even as a boy,
fleet of foot and
quick with a kiss,
I could not
Catch up to the fairer sex.

Still, it is true,
I'd return to those days,
If I could,
And growing,
I'd make all the same decisions
So that I'd end up here,
Again
This dewy Sunday morn,
Thinking and smiling over
a Love so close,
So close.


Poet's Notes about The Poem

For a girl, of course, and my mother, too ;)

Comments about Sunday by John Nelson

  • (9/2/2012 8:25:00 PM)


    This is beautiful. Once upon a time a boy wrote poetry for me, makes me think back. Very nostalgic :) (Report) Reply

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  • (8/20/2012 6:57:00 PM)


    Very good write in deed, enjoyed it. (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, August 19, 2012



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