January 9, 2012

poem 9 of a poem a day for 2012


canoeing ( a clarinet jazz suite)



is it not 
the crawled 
climbed Sun
that desperately 
seeks the higher 
part of the sky
instinctively 
after January begins
howling wind
leafless trees
head bent huddled
leaning into 
the thin parts of prayer
and how we wear 
desire for skin
and if we dare declare
all the lairs of sin
poetry
the notes 
in layers of me
from clay
to wood
to fire
and ash
and all that
the rain gathers
swept of rash
or what you might call my
passionate crooked smiles
the kind the dark 
swallows every night
fumbling for the keys 
inside thumbing through
the dictionaries
on my knees
again
fingers ten
because I know
paper to pen
these words
are starting
to spill
stopping time
crow feather in 
the window sill
sunning to send
this music
hived to a bee
these pieces
of metal water
flopped,popped
cropped just so
grow sometimes
just to be cut 
again
these sounds
that bleed
in capitulates
and dreamy sequences
silently screamed
against the fallen glass
in a snowglobe maraca chant
that are still just the scant
surfaces of me
the digging to get in
these pieces of trees
and leaves and seeds
that are
what the
poetry is to me
sometimes rust
sometimes bloom
always a must
it comes from
my womb


EJR (c)

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