The Scream Poem by Carol Anne Bundy

The Scream



It was the sort of nod that said I hadn't heard a word,
yet the young man kept talking, talking, relentlessly on,
telling me of his great plans for the future,
the people he'd met.

I wanted to scream.
But I didn't.

Rather I just sat there in my garden
staring at the roses I'd planted last autumn.
Roses patiently waiting for spring,
petals falling.

The roses, they waited.
They waited.
The roses, they waited.
They waited for spring.

Why couldn't people be more like the roses?
Graceful and noble. So fragrant.
Even their thorns,
things of beauty.
Has it been the fault of men
or a crime of nature,
that humans have endlessly struggled, struggled,
to be at peace with the world?

At peace with themselves
At peace with each other.

Pushing instead.
Pushing.
Fighting.
Afraid.

The young man, he kept on talking…
Talking.
Talking.
Talking in my garden.

Yes, no, yes.
Yes.
No.
Maybe.

And there I was, screaming.
Screaming.
Screaming in silence.

Monday, November 17, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: frustration
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