September 11, 2012

poem 319 of a poem a day for 2012





the carnival mythology of my numb

the pointed reaches
of maple leaves
are street vending
the ends of Summer
they bend yellow tipped
sipping sugar on the way
into where the air meets
the daughters of the rain

the cold air this morning
reminds me that I don’t
stretch myself into
the elements like a yogi might
I cup them instead
and turn them into
each cauldron bubble

he mustn’t know how
to feel us watching him
can he feel
can he know how
I hear whispered on the wind
as I wheel and wield
sharp angles
and soft words
to slow the structuring
of pyramids
that can be used
for those eyes
that lie outside
my sacré-cœur

what is there I muse
inside the ride of clocks
that can be mine
to have and to hold
as if I am told by the dark
to peer through the bazaars
of every kind of humanity
for an explanation
to my behavior

what sayeth I am
in my mad smiles
as I cajole you
to strap on those dictionaries
if you want to tag along
this ride is bumpy
but worth taking
I say in each poem
come find me with the birds
of the dead so you can hear me
whisper to them to take flight
and leave tomorrow here today
so that any of you
who might be
looking for a why
can take nourishment
to your soles
each step beyond time

EJR ©

2 comments:

  1. dude...surreal on some levels esp int he imagery but oh so good....that first stanza and the last in particular for me...nice engagement of the reader as well...one i wish i wrote...

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  2. The last stanza strongest for me - I keep thinking of Walt Whitman telling us to look for him on our boot soles! Well done. k.

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