In the budding grove of my desire he took me
Before I knew about consent, he stole me away, here in this park.
The green grass is now a graveyard of dead leaves.
Autumn serves as Charon’s boat, docked in this park.
I sat on this bench with an ex lover once, I looked up at the leaves and
Thought they could be other universes, somehow localized in this park.
Thin gray clouds cover the blue sky like cellophane,
The light is pale and Aurora trembles anxiously over the park.
George Seurat’s painting, “A Sunday on La Grande Jatte” captures
The most beautiful hues of the people trees grass water and life of a park.
Sometimes I look through the low branches of trees and pretend
I’m in Seurat’s painting, one of the many strollers, Sunday in the park.
I sat on this red bench one afternoon in the winter, listening
To the String Adagietto of Mahler’s 5th, everything empty in the park
My grandfather died in hospice, and I sat weeping on a bench as the
melody of the strings brushed away my tears in this park.
The sun is covered by the clouds, yet the light refuses to yield,
It’s as if an ethereal being is smiling, and weeping, over this park.
SOBER POETRY: This is a space where recovery and creativity meet. It features heartfelt verses that capture the emotions of sobriety. Written by various Sober Curator Contributors and readers about their recovery journeys, these poems provide inspiration, healing, and reflection for readers seeking solace and connection.
Do you have a sober poem you’d love to submit? Please email us at thesobercurator@gmail.com.
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