Is this a dream
there is no air
moving freely
way down here
way down here
What is this puddle at my feet
when sun is shining bright
where blueness fills the sky I see
but raining fills the night
Oh to feel the freshest breeze
fill my lungs and sweep my hair
stifling in my flesh bound jail
hormones bouncing everywhere
I must climb out, my skin may burst
someone find my fan
these windows will not budge for me
get Harold and His Purple Crayon
Patricia Spreng
This week, One Stop Poetry showcases the work and insights of Scott Wyden, a portrait and travel photographer from New Jersey specializing in landscape and commercial/fashion work. Stop by One Stop Poetry to enjoy other wonderful works.
This shot reminded me of the beloved children’s book Harold and the Purple Crayon by Crockett Johnson. All of Johnson's text and artwork is © by the Estate of Ruth Krauss.
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| Harold is a little boy who goes for a walk with his purple crayon drawing whatever he needs for his adventure, or to escape peril. He draws a picnic for a snack, pies for dessert, a large city of windows, a policeman to help him find his way home, and a hot air balloon and finally he draws his bed and his bedroom window around the moon, so he can go to sleep. |
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| 1955 |
While I am not familiar with the book you reference (which looks very creative), that did not stop me from enjoying your poem very much.
ReplyDeleteLove the passage...
"Oh to feel the freshest breeze
fill my lungs and sweep my hair
stifling in my flesh bound jail
hormones bouncing everywhere."
Cheers
ha...nice...love that book...it was a scorched here the other day and i could have used a fan or maybe a trip outside my skin...
ReplyDeleteWonderful work...
ReplyDeleteskyscrappers
Lovely!
ReplyDeleteBeautifully shared.
ReplyDeletei love the bouncing hormones and the wish to break free in your words...very understandable...the book you refer to sounds nice
ReplyDeleteInside the head of one city person... nice.
ReplyDeleteWay back in the 60's I spent a summer break in the Bronx. This reminded me of the oppressive heat, even without the hormone factor.
ReplyDeleteI get a lil clastraphobic in cities myself. Enjoyd this.
ReplyDeleteThe soul yearns for that air - it's up there, too, and we know it. Good poem, Patricia.
ReplyDeleteEnjoyed this, and the idea of Harold and his crayon fits in well with the idea of an artificial construct caught up in its own imperatives and trapping the writer.
ReplyDelete