January 16, 2012

poem 17 of a poem a day for 2012 (early blog entry, courtesy of the Muse)






howling for a storm


arched into 
the teeth of the wind
the southerlies push 
what fills
the rain 
into me

I finger-comb 
the pieces 
of falling debris
the drifted gifted 
caught litter lifted 
like words from 
bird songs that 
speak languages
buried in the rocks

I am out of my mind 
more than inside it lately
veining the elements
watching how the blood 
of things pools and waits
for the thinnest ripe of skin
to begin an excavation

each tilled seeded grow
each bladed cup row
holds the tides and
washes the stars
in the dark
like love 
carving 
each birth
I have
by candlelight
crawling Winter
to Beltane
dark ribbons
to light again



EJR (c)

2 comments:

  1. Damn silent E Edward...editing without my glasses again makes me crawl like an ass through sin...quite a taste of the good life,there...namaste folks...thanks for reading...

    ReplyDelete
  2. I love this, especially these:

    "the southerlies push
    what fills
    the rain
    into me

    I finger-comb
    the pieces
    of falling debris"

    "watching how the blood
    of things pools and waits
    for the thinnest ripe of skin
    to begin an excavation"

    ReplyDelete