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.
In a room with over-sized books
and a dungy wing-back chair,
I am invited to sit
and look at maps of Belize
and Montenegro, tables espousing
cotton production
in the deep south, where is the world’s leading
smelter of tin,
or diagrams of different zoological
families.
Garden paths of azaleas
in a gulf between tall oaks,
Photographs of Lennon on holiday
and Lenin in state,
and the virtues of handmade linen,
all woven and attentive
to my browsing.
Bindings jut and overhang
from the shelves,
like spanish moss speaking,
knowing that I choose the ones
who pronounce themselves
and embrace my turn
of the page.
********
I was spending time in a library this week, when I happened on
the oversized book collection in a quiet room with
a single chair. So much about this collection and this
environment spoke to me.
I am not feeling some in-vivo
loss of love.
I just don’t see how it comes,
to me.
Out of nothingness
-a sudden embrace of pleasure
swathed in joy-
being in your arms.
held in the dark
with warm superlatives
and I am afraid to open
my eyes
Or even in light
where moving sideways
affords discovery –
and yet things are unfazed by my presence.
sometimes, it wells up inside me
that I am lonely,
and the crest that falls
obliges me to ride a flux
to moments like this, when someone
reads what I have felt
and created to make it so.
*************
This is an odd collection of thoughts that I wrote in my writing journal throughout this past week. I’ve assembled it as a poem on loneliness (I think). I’m not sure it is fully coherent as a poem yet, but it is something that I want to leave here for comment.
I am afraid of
painted wood,
of silence, the absence
of touch-
all empty hearts.
Do not conceal the grain.
an errant
beauty that meanders
repeats patterns,
a sorcery of contrast
that speaks of light and dark,
grown in the embrace of time.
Smoothed in polished hue,
yet textured and aching
for traces
to sound
and hear its voice.
The vibrations that
act upon a contoured soul
and adjoin
with tongues of parity,
a shape that’s shared and sown.
*******************
While sitting at my work table, I noticed the beautiful wood grain that wove through the surface, and this poem emerged.
There on,
her window sill blossoms
with planter box flowers
of slow jazz and Stanleys.
Her hand in the sunlight,
its daughter, light and blue.
Of red poppies,
love and forever –
displayed in tune.
And sometimes her crush
of the embraceable gypsy,
-of you
and your charming
pinned notes of heart’s spade
and peonies,
cause her to croon and cascade.
Her fingers lace
through clusters and letters,
still photographs of the
of scarlet fragments her
tears leave in the dirt – along
with the packet
of field daisy seeds
from me.
I remember the blue in her eyes,
though often they were green –
a wistfulness, when she tilted her head,
sentiment at the seams.
Her fingertips, absently tracing the rim
of a cup or a saucer, or both.
The governed expanse of the contour
revealing as is, clothed.
To lean in, whisper lure and yearning,
so bold and sacred, so preferred –
then settle back in tidal fashion
sands and beaches bared – secured.
I recall the mounting balance
that melody and rhythm bind,
a song there at the nucleus
hastened,
fresh and primed.
I have felt the blue of her ocean,
my eyes remember the scene.
And I am the breeze that comes off the water
pensive and longing my dreams.
Careful-
With that song
and dance, the one that tweaks their
minds. By chance,
do you rent your inspiration?
Your soul, your lust and legislation
all inclusive-
gone buffet.
A little here and there’s Okay.
Take salad tongs
to prep your bowl
with crawfish, okra,
mac and rolls.
And when the trip down line’s complete,
you feel the ache swell in your feet.
Then I could sit and give massage
til metaphors spill
and rhymes barrage.
The song transforms from swing to pop
a subtle lay with ballad stops.
The night with moonlight’s shade is set,
and you and I,
we pirouette.
My vista has left.
It got up and walked away,
taking its burgeoning poetry
and florets of blush
just beyond the hill-
where I last see a wrinkle
in the day.
Perhaps, it will sail away
and live at sea, content in knowing
that final curtains are best
without remorse. Every green patch
a relic of what was bewitching for me.
Tossed by storms in darkness,
with no one to notice.
Cowed in heat and sun.
Awoken in grey mists
that cling and impede
their run.
Maybe, one day it will land aground
after years adrift. Someone will see
and write words that begin a scene anew.
The beauty of the vista, adorned
with yearning – causes me to run
with all abandon
to meet the last wrinkle
of the day.
*****************
It is National Poetry Writing Month. I’ve participated in the past, but I don’t think I will this year – time will not allow me a post every day. I’ve been on a bit of a down-turn lately with inspiration for writing and experiencing my own emotional lows. This poem conveys a little of that struggle, the loss of “vision” – though I’m not sure I’m totally happy with it. I share it anyway, as a work in progress, because writing is something I must continue to do.
I don’t know why, I just do. I hope readers will continue to read.
All the best.
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.
with little sense
of wont and desire, less
like the flowers
that arose in February’s earnestness
and more in the dim
apathy of March mornings –
poetry lurks.
It seeks neither the fervor
of moments beneath the lilac
tree, nor the sweet aftertaste
of blackberries from yesterday’s
market.
It sneaks between the
goodwill trees, evergreen,
and brings back carcasses and twigs.
Scars, long ignored,
are indelible now. They will not be
mocked to insignificance,
but rather written down
after foraging the bleak and raw,
perfecting each and every flaw.
Taps and Ratamacues 