Tears at Sunset: A Poetry Portfolio

After The Tragedy

Orange flowers, yellow leaves, green grass, blue water, and a deep, crimson red sky. Damp soil clung to the bottom of my combat boots, dragging me down to earth with every step I took. Heavier and heavier. 
An old oak tree stood sturdy, not yielding to strong winds, desperate to cling to the Earth. I extended a long, scarred arm to the bare oak tree’s bark. My callused, rough hands gingerly traced an odd circle again. And again. The color faded, not as dark or as rough as the rest of the russet oak tree, but dark like my morning bitter, black coffee I love to drink. I used to love it. 
Soft cries from baby birds above scream in silent agonies, like lost battle cries. Only this broke the rare silence. The only silence of this decade.
A strong breeze returns once again, wrapping around me, giving comfort, holding me close. Two thinly crossed oak branches, anchored by a worn, tattered rope. I laid the orange flowers in my hands cautiously onto the branches. A single, warm teardrop flowed from my eyes. How cruel.  
Silent moments passed before a loud crack roared through the red sky. Finally together. 

Her Bleeding Heart

Her heart bleeds for me
Her warmth lingered in my hands,
In my cold dead hands.

What a foolish girl
How quick she fell for my lies
Or was she the lie?

This cruel dark world
What glimmer was left is gone
Into ebony.

Monster Of A Mother

For five minutes, all I saw was a mother 
Not a beast that devours their own child
Not Father Cronus who devoured his 6 children for power
But the mother of 8 children smiled 

The chains around her neck for “the protection of others” clicked and clattered
Her bedroom was filthy and tattered 
Her clothes clearly told a sign of the mother who was battered

But she was grateful
She was grateful for being near her family
She was grateful for having a plateful
She saw herself as shameful

Her husband guarded and ridged decreed
said that his wife was mentally ill to be released
Let us ask again, is she a mother or a slumbering beast

River

The river once polluted with rifles, masks, and straws
Turned greyer and greyer over centuries of human life 

A dark shadow skipping pebbles across the small river  
Her “black lives matter” poster, laid at the foot of the riverbed

“Save the Turtle” banner soiled and drenched 
The endangered turtles swam cautiously  
Huddled around each other at the corner of the river
Searching for comfort and sanctuary in each other
Their hard exterior shell is not enough, not anymore

None can deny the blue river is 
A bit clear
A bit cleaner
A bit calmer every day 
But every day, the water grows just a bit grayer, but a little redder too

The soil poisoned from the chaotic capital invasion
The stomping from the large protests uprooted buds
Bare, dry, and desolated dirt

Every stone skipped and skimmed across the surface
The small ripples of waves grew larger and larger
With every ripple, the water seemed clearer and calmer

With every gust and every thrust of wind, more trash is swept in
But at dawn, the shadow returns 
Tidying as much as they can
The river will never be clear as glass, but it will always try to be clearer.

A New Journey

Because she 
    won’t scramble
            by

    she’ll

                    embark
on an expedition 

        one of many
 

Never To Be

A princess and a commoner
A love never meant to last a day, lasts forever

The sun gives a chaste kiss on the lovers’ chests
The man and the women embrace but for mere moments
Flashes of camera go off to capture the quickly extinguished love
I stare a the two lovers who were passionate

The commoner did not foolishly die; he was a martyr
The princess did not sacrifice herself to be with the commoner
They are not Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet 
She lived on; holding onto memories so she would never forget

Every day, they circle and pace
Every minute long for the other’s embrace 
Neither falters to the weather or time
Their enduring, passionate love is like a crime

Their earthly bodies have long been turned to sand
Their passionate love lasts in the moving statue of A Women and Man

Her

Hazel eyes and chestnut hair I dare miss
A lullaby I age and turn to wine
Her lips plump and chaste, perfect for a kiss
Her hands soft and small, so perfect in mine

I want her how warm Spring rain wants to fall
I want her how bright sun wants shine itself
I want her how brilliant bright fire burns all
To embrace her soul and heart in myself

Forever to be gazing from below 
Like who covet a fruitless treasured task
I stand below this Myrtle tree alone
The soldier behind this cold cracked smiled mask

To yearn for her to give thyself to me
Thy heart never mine, I never be free

Death’s Final Friend (inspired by Emily Dickinson)

White fur, black eyes–
A Red collar
Waiting patiently in the Tunnel
Patiently Waiting for a traveler

In a tunnel of green
A bright, White light at the end
Grass, trees, and vines–
Patiently, he waits for a friend

The tired, energetic, old, young
Once in a while, they come—like tonight
Together they walked, no leash in hand
Patiently, they walk together to the light

One day I will walk too–
The dog will wait patiently for me
Walk me down the tunnel–into the light
Death has never looked more Friendly

Down By The River

Golden Shovel - Dreams by Langston Hughes

The blue, brass bucket can not hold
water from the river that runs so fast.
From the river that runs to
the bright-lit city of built dreams.

Carry their own blue, brass, bucket for
they too want to try holding some water. If
they too want to they to be in the city of dreams 
they must be prepared to die.
 
If they are preparing to live a ”better” life
they must become who a waterman is.
They must be prepared to give up a 
life to become a broken-winged 
bird. No healing could fix it. Gone is the red bird.

The magnificent red bird that
choose a to become a waterman, cannot 
Fly—

*Brianna Liu is a Librarians of Tomorrow intern and a soon-to-be high school graduate.