The following is a trio of original poems that I composed during the morning hours of Sept. 9 and Sept. 10 of 2019. The “theme” for each of these works is the number three, which is utilized in both an overt and codified manner.
These pieces are my first attempt at poetry. The first of the bunch (“Untitled #1”) is the very first poem I’ve ever penned.
Hope you enjoy.
Untitled #1
It comes back, reminding you of what you lack
A brief moment of happiness, was it all an act?
A flash in the pan, fleeting as ever
A helping hand—at the wrist—severed
“No,” an internal voice whispers. “Not again.”
The perpetual cycle has returned, set to begin
Vision obscured, mind disorientated
You trudge along until the path reveals itself
Shelved above the darkness, you breathe, relieved, exonerated
The black dog nipping at your heels has once again faded
A brief moment of happiness, was it all an act?
With the mountaintop clear, a smile appears
“It can only get better from here!”
Months later, an unwelcome guest
The fiction fizzles, reality cracks
And then it comes back
In this ride, you’re strapped to the seat
Where expectation and outcome rarely meet
The sunlight slowly fades from view as you peek toward horizon’s peak
Weak, weary, at wit’s end, the clouds dissipate once again
A fresh start? A new outlook? Surely this time shall be the last!
And then…
TriXie (?)
I saw her sitting there, in a chair
With ebony hair and aura bare
Both laissez-faire and devil-may-care
With turtleneck and jeans from the bargain bin
She was no frat boy’s idea of a “ten”
I whisked past her, making my way
When I heard a “Hey,” from the girl in gray
Her soft voice stopped me dead in my tracks
Her tone soothing and relaxed
I turned and we locked eyes
A mutual gaze, her face about twenty-five in age
Gentle pupils, reminiscent of a sage
She declared her name “Trixie”— or was it “Christie”?
It’s tricky, tough to remember
My mind was cloudy that November
Appealing me for a dollar, I fibbed and feigned
“Sorry, I merely have pocket change.”
Without hassle, nor holler, Trixie nodded
“I suppose,” she said. “That’s the way it always goes.”
Rising from her seat, my sense of shame red as beets
From her purse she brandished a flower—a rose
And placed it in my left hand, the stem balanced on my palm
She proclaimed “Fret not, for I have no qualms”
Observing the petals and thorns, I had a change of heart
I looked up, but like a shadow in the dark
She was gone
Odd Man Out
Third, thrice, Three—was it supposed to be?
Last in line, left in the cold to shiver
Left behind, not even gold or silver
Stuck with bronze as the legs froze—in place
How did it come last in the race?
A roll of the dice? A bad hand?
It would sure love to try again
Perhaps a dream, akin to a movie scene
Actors on their marks, the cameras wide-width
Dialogue penned by Lee and directed by Kubrick
Except it’s not—despite how much it seems
Three will always be kept from the spotlight’s beam
Left alone for self, its hunger grows
To prove itself, to let others know
That the forgotten one who faced a turned back
Shall create its own sun to make up for lack
“Is the third time truly a charm or a curse?”
Three asks with a shout
As the living strikeout lay trapped in the dugout
Cognizant of its position—not second nor first
Left in the wild, without flee
I impart to thee, without glee
Remember, lest you have a doubt
Three—shall always be—the odd man out
Quinton Bradley
Contributing Writer
Quinton Bradley is an Ohio-based writer. He runs a blog called Hammers And Papyrus and can be followed on Twitter @QBAbstract.