In a gift for someone that I once knew-
A few moments wrapped
in crisp paper with string.
each one a mating of calm and called.
Intent on these penetrating emotions-
they are patterns of poetry from memories
underneath the neat taped corners.
They could be jumbled and incoherent,
but I prefer them pressed and bound
Holding the pieces
Notions of affection
convened for her disposal
will be mailed
in the morning.
A reworking of a poem that I first wrote in 2006.
Encompassed by her stare
as she reveals a confident esprit,
and wanders in my mind to be omniscient,
salient for me.
Deluged by her rhapsodic reign
and drenched in love time and again,
a dousing seems a welcomed bane
upon my weary soul and stain.
Subject to her word and tome
complete and perfect, craved and honed,
every act a sin – atoned
and riddled cunning, bone-to-bone.
If all wishes were granted
the world’d come unglued-
some mountains would topple,
most governments too.
Would granting fulfillment
kill thirst on the vine?
No fruit of the spirit.
No waiting in line.
The songs about lovesickness
would drop minor chords,
and poets would dally
with limericks and torts.
To grant all the wishes
might invoke riots
where folks with day-yearnings
might want for the night.
Humankind’s never happiest
and not satisfied
unless something to strive for
is there to divide.
Yet, curious the issue
that lingers about –
this striving and conquering
leaves others out.
Their wishes pummeled,
Yes – they have them too.
If their wishes die
then the world’d come unglued.
the mystery that drives and weaves
and captures all she feels and grieves-
inward lies her heart perfecting
both her days and nights, dissecting
with a tiny mirrored hand-
her sphere, it grows -afflicts the strand
which twines and knots and preys alone
and none will notice, deftly sewn
just like auroras, bold and lithe
she wanders – spreads – abates in sight.
in that she kneels
by the hawthorne in spring, leaning in
to absorb the blossoms
-their balm and velvet-
in silent acquiescence.
her own shoots and sprays
and she seeks a dovetail,
tallied to share her joy and rage,
and calm the gathering in her soul.
I happened upon a photograph of Sylvia Plath as a teenager, sitting by a flowering bush, and began to consider a poem. I rather like this, it is very uncomplicated – but foreboding in a way. She was a brilliant poet. Thanks for visiting.