The Gazeebo

A Poet's Place

The Gazeebo: The Fog is Lifting

Bonjour!

And that is basically the end of my knowledge of the language of French that I know lol.  Anyway, I worked again today – got to make a drink called a Cafe Caramel (iced) .. either, coffee really is only an acquired taste that I just can’t stand.. or iced coffee just isn’t for me lol.  I mean, I used to like it when I was younger and we’d go up to our cabin and I’d drink it outside with my parents (though it took me a good hour at least to finish one cup), but now the only thing that I sort of enjoy are the little frappuccinos that you can buy in the store.  So, I think I’ll either try it hot next time, or just stick to smoothies 😛

On a non-work note, my mom started her EMT class today 🙂 She’s loving it so far and I really hope that she does good in it.  I guess the professor is good at keeping things fun and understandable for her and her classmates so that’s always nice.  I’ve had some professors and teachers in the past that just dragged things down :/

Alright I’m getting kind of tired.. a little sooner than I expected I would too.  So, before giving you the poem for this post, I just want to say that the block is finally beginning to go away .. I wrote about 3 stanzas of a poem so far (it’s not nearly finished and I may even revise / omit what I’ve already written), but it’s a start 🙂

Now, here’s the poem – this one I wrote in high school as part of a project (of 8 poems) based on the concentration camps during WWII after reading the book Night by Elie Wiesel.  This one was the middle (and basically the center-point) of that entire project – it was supposed to be me just showing the worst of the worst of the entire thing and, along with my attempt at throwing a load of emotion into it to show the reader, poetically, how bad it truly was.  On a little side note, I was really quite surprised I hadn’t put this one up on the blog, so here it is.

Torture and Death

—————————————

Hundreds of days,

Filled with thousands of beatings.

A thousand bruises

And ten thousand cries;

Hundreds of pleas to die.

Beat into the night,

Or beat till broken.

Hundreds of hangings

And thousands of tears.

Men and young boys alike

All die the same fate.

Thousands starve;

Tens of thousands die,

But no gravestones;

No markings.

Only staring eyes

And pleas to “Get it over with!”

We all started out in a prison,

Surrounded by men.

Now we live in a kennel;

Like dogs.

Our prison is no prison now;

It’s a cemetery.

© Jesse McDowell Lungren

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August 20, 2011 - Posted by | Your Lungren Originals | , , , , , , ,

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