February 19, 2012

poem 50 of a poem a day for 2012



the pregnancy of our gravity  

in the eaves cooing the Sun 
past Lupercalia
a root suckle curl 
is heard in the trills
of the morning doves
afternoon leaning late
February,as Spring seems
earlier than usual
I am hanging roses
like chances taken
twisting bread-ties 
to string stems across 
the kitchen doorway


could be I am
re-balancing 
my part of the dared
shared bunting
that is our atmosphere
with my words 
and their wombed madnesses
 combustible joys 
and not carbon bigfoots
that herd into an opinion
write this way poet
or else you're no good  
and so on and so on
so whether I am
one way looking
crossing the road
running blind
or simply waiting
on the rain
I am my own mob
my own fast
orbiting mood 

so if choice
blooms fate
my way again 
my crawled passions 
will still be vines 
will still divine-curl 
and demand 
my ten finger prayers
to be palms down
knees dug
my face in the cradle 
flying the carpet wear
from home to home
from a crescent wane
that's barely noticeable 
to the gnarled want
of life's spined reach 
that weaves into
an old Oak tree's
grasp of the stars  
pin-sharp stabs 
of life at night
slow warm bleeds
tiny sighs breathing
from inside
the cupped love
of our souls 
offering gate initiation
 through each exhale


the silent frequency
of our far away 
mathematical deaths
can be hidden in 
the shadow-seed stretch 
of our darks
can be painted 
on every canvas 
turn of our wheels
that the tides
collect in the dejavu 
of cosmic dust 
falling breath-rhythms  
finger-formed smells 
we hold round
each wet clay awe
we pause in

we crane-neck
our eyes to roam
with wonder
the night sky
because
we want 
everything
to know 
the desire
of our humanity  

the electricity  
of our journey
is not in 
the constant game
of musical chairs
pulled rugs 
and spun peddled clocks 
that tuck fold wings
but rather 
we crackle-fork divinity
 in the lightning strikes 
of our quiet storms
on the roads
we instinctively
 hold sacred
as we hope-chest 
each dream
like a poem 
or rose petal
we might save 
to remember
why we sing
birth after birth
outside our 
bone-cages

EJR (c)

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