top of page

Issue 17 Out Now

Self-Portrait as an Old Soul

a poem…

We waded through history with whistles and humming

that rose from the downpour of love.

We watched morning from our horizon cloth

itself with the winds that carried away our names each day.

Only some time ago that resembles a yesterday in my mind,

we followed the fumbling feet of crows as they

perched on the branches of the young Odums and the wawas.

Our catapults were as innocent as our feet,

and we meandered through the newly-made farms

that blinked in glory as the early days of a peculiar grace.

A dead Dandelion (Photo by Ýlona María Rybka on Unsplash)

Days were what we didn’t count.

We dwelt in our mothers’ bosoms, and at night when

demons surveyed our homelands, we were

the only eyes that met the minds between Change and Rebel.

We laid down, sleep-deprived, waiting for a future

that woefully smiled at our innocent, endearing minds.

Photo by Wadi Lissa on Unsplash

We were friends — one of yesterday and the other of today.

I remember our teeth that knew no fluorides

and our hands that knew no sin besides killing

the innocent but wicked birds that ate my

father’s corn farm away. And, until time pounced on us,

we were those that always settled with the innocent and free.

3 views0 comments


bottom of page