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To soon then to be ours..

To soon then to be ours…

I listened to the roused robin awhile his song reminded me of youthful games
played, days dark weather delayed, As we sped along streets that had become
someone’s memories, then to be ours.

But not one day passes that I’ll forget, a lazy arm on a friends shoulder. Or the
smile, sometimes a kiss from a pretty girl, tempting us away from the ball, trying
to play the hero at three and a half feet tall.

How soon it settles to be a fond dream, reel after encapsulating reel reminding us of
a different era, and yes harder. We knew how empty the cupboard was before
arriving, and in those days we didn’t call it our larder.

A nest egg was a nest egg to be eaten not saved, the trails were real none were
paved, overgrown if not used. A raging river had to be crossed though only wider
than our height by an inch, danger we found bettered but not abused.

Gangs were formed by way of distance and visitation, if only sense could be shown
to better affect the politician who leads a nation. What peace could be brought not
bought if all swords were wooden and never crossed. Perhaps our soldiers could be
among pages of a past, a marker so their place was not lost.

Ah am I making sense or ridding myself of rage by way of youthful remembrance,
will we be allowed to know the path to equality. A young man’s peace, or is
believing it to be true, my only release.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Last few words: 
The gangs i write about are childhood gangs, not the silly gangs of today...
Editing stage: 

Comments

Some judicious punctuation would help. I felt myself too often in the middle of run on sentences not knowing where one ended and another began.
The subject is cool, but my "non free verse" perceptions had a bit of trouble.
wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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I used to be so deliberate with my punctuation, so much so that i lost my train of thought while doubling back to correct what i'd written. Now i just love the freedom to ramble, though i know i'll return later. Again i thank you and promise that as i have some extra time on my hands, i will tidy this up. Regards Roscoe..

Roscoe Llane,

Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.

author comment

My first draft of anything is always emotional chaos. I dip my pen and scratch leaving out full spellings, punctuation, anything that smacks of organization. Then I key it to the computer, print and start fixing it as though a fourth grade teacher reviewing a slow student's work.
wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
http://www.neopoet.com/mentor/about

so I did the old trick and copied into Word and removed the lines breaks and guess what? check this out

To soon then to be ours…

I listened to the roused robin awhile his song reminded me of youthful games played, days dark weather delayed, As we sped along streets that had become someone’s memories, then to be ours.

But not one day passes that I’ll forget, a lazy arm on a friends shoulder. Or the smile, sometimes a kiss from a pretty girl, tempting us away from the ball, trying to play the hero at three and a half feet tall.

How soon it settles to be a fond dream, reel after encapsulating reel reminding us of a different era, and yes harder. We knew how empty the cupboard was before arriving, and in those days we didn’t call it our larder.

A nest egg was a nest egg to be eaten not saved, the trails were real none were paved, overgrown if not used. A raging river had to be crossed though only wider than our height by an inch, danger we found bettered but not abused.

Gangs were formed by way of distance and visitation, if only sense could be shown to better affect the politician who leads a nation. What peace could be brought not bought if all swords were wooden and never crossed. Perhaps our soldiers could be among pages of a past, a marker so their place was not lost.

Ah am I making sense or ridding myself of rage by way of youthful remembrance, will we be allowed to know the path to equality. A young man’s peace, or is believing it to be true, my only release.

I reckon it reads better this way, a kinda prose poem.

What I'm unsure about is the meaning. It feels like post-war England and I'm not sure of its relevance, the political message is so vague.

cheers,
Jess
Neopoet Directors

First off let me say i love how you've written this poem. As to a meaning, i'd have to say, time, or the lack of. I feel like i've been fighting an unwinnable battle for so long. That of equality and fairness for all the peoples in this world, and we still have the same grubby lot shaping our lives. I guess i'm just thinking back to the days when i felt my generation would make the difference. Perhaps gathering strength for one final push before the big sleep. Thank you. Regards Roscoe.

Roscoe Llane,

Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.

author comment
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