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