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The Handkerchief (1 Viewer)

Namyh

Senior Member
The Handkerchief

I walked down the stairs into the bright city street
to the store for a brew and a smoke.
Huddled in a corner of the smashed landscape
was a rubbled human fragment that was broke.
He looked like a drab bundle of dirty clothes,
all torn and shredded at the seams,
littered with the residue of broken battles and
cracked glass of shattered dreams.

He began his dying early through agonizing routes
of disappointment, disillusion and shame,
ending up last place on pavement searching
for that license tag of fleeting Fame.
Great men leave marks of their fragmentary existence.
On the tapestry of his life were blots,
discolored blemishes he used as yardsticks to measure
the man he was not.

With his hand extended, he looked in my eyes
and asked for any spare change.
I pulled out some quarters and a handkerchief
which he took and said “Thanks all the same.”
I said there was Sorcery in the hanky,
which he viewed all folded and neat,
and if he mentally rubbed the dark spots of his life,
he could liberate himself from the streets.
Cynicism in his eyes heard Truth in my voice.
A glimmer of Hope did fuse.
I nodded with assurance and waved goodbye
saying “Try it! So, what’ve you to lose?”

Halfway down the block, I turned to see
his hand rise up in the air,
that handkerchief rubbing some phantom blot
engulfed by his captured stare.
Several days later, I passed that place
but a new guy sat in his booth
who said my guy one day stood up heading
home to his kids in Duluth.
Then I walked down the block but turned to witness
something inspiring and rare.
That new guy was rubbing, with handkerchief in hand,
some blot in the air with “his” stare.

A Man can rise from a cellar to a summit
giving birth to a brand new start
with a sprinkle of Belief and a dash of Desire
and the Magic in the human heart.


Namyh
 

ritudimrinautiyal

Senior Member
The Handkerchief

I walked down the stairs into the bright city street
to the store for a brew and a smoke.
Huddled in a corner of the smashed landscape
was a rubbled human fragment that was broke.
He looked like a drab bundle of dirty clothes,
all torn and shredded at the seams,
littered with the residue of broken battles and
cracked glass of shattered dreams.

He began his dying early through agonizing routes
of disappointment, disillusion and shame,
ending up last place on pavement searching
for that license tag of fleeting Fame.
Great men leave marks of their fragmentary existence.
On the tapestry of his life were blots,
discolored blemishes he used as yardsticks to measure
the man he was not.

With his hand extended, he looked in my eyes
and asked for any spare change.
I pulled out some quarters and a handkerchief
which he took and said “Thanks all the same.”
I said there was Sorcery in the hanky,
which he viewed all folded and neat,
and if he mentally rubbed the dark spots of his life,
he could liberate himself from the streets.
Cynicism in his eyes heard Truth in my voice.
A glimmer of Hope did fuse.
I nodded with assurance and waved goodbye
saying “Try it! So, what’ve you to lose?”

Halfway down the block, I turned to see
his hand rise up in the air,
that handkerchief rubbing some phantom blot
engulfed by his captured stare.
Several days later, I passed that place
but a new guy sat in his booth
who said my guy one day stood up heading
home to his kids in Duluth.
Then I walked down the block but turned to witness
something inspiring and rare.
That new guy was rubbing, with handkerchief in hand,
some blot in the air with “his” stare.

A Man can rise from a cellar to a summit
giving birth to a brand new start
with a sprinkle of Belief and a dash of Desire
and the Magic in the human heart.


Namyh
Although I read it like a narrative poem but felt like a song while reading. If you can compose music, this can be a song with a few changes for the musical rhythms and beats.

Actually I liked the sensitivity and emotions pouring out of it.

Thanks for sharing it here.

Ritu
 
The Handkerchief

I walked down the stairs into the bright city street
to the store for a brew and a smoke.
Huddled in a corner of the smashed landscape
was a rubbled human fragment that was broke.
He looked like a drab bundle of dirty clothes,
all torn and shredded at the seams,
littered with the residue of broken battles and
cracked glass of shattered dreams.

He began his dying early through agonizing routes
of disappointment, disillusion and shame,
ending up last place on pavement searching
for that license tag of fleeting Fame.
Great men leave marks of their fragmentary existence.
On the tapestry of his life were blots,
discolored blemishes he used as yardsticks to measure
the man he was not.

With his hand extended, he looked in my eyes
and asked for any spare change.
I pulled out some quarters and a handkerchief
which he took and said “Thanks all the same.”
I said there was Sorcery in the hanky,
which he viewed all folded and neat,
and if he mentally rubbed the dark spots of his life,
he could liberate himself from the streets.
Cynicism in his eyes heard Truth in my voice.
A glimmer of Hope did fuse.
I nodded with assurance and waved goodbye
saying “Try it! So, what’ve you to lose?”

Halfway down the block, I turned to see
his hand rise up in the air,
that handkerchief rubbing some phantom blot
engulfed by his captured stare.
Several days later, I passed that place
but a new guy sat in his booth
who said my guy one day stood up heading
home to his kids in Duluth.
Then I walked down the block but turned to witness
something inspiring and rare.
That new guy was rubbing, with handkerchief in hand,
some blot in the air with “his” stare.

A Man can rise from a cellar to a summit
giving birth to a brand new start
with a sprinkle of Belief and a dash of Desire
and the Magic in the human heart.


Namyh
Hi Namyh,

I really like this poem. It's such a beautiful message and it flows so easily. I think it's written very well.
 
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