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| photo by Edward Rinaldi © |
scabbard conversational sunset to sunrise to sunset
( a repeating ritual, poem to poet to poem)
time is our aggregate density
as well as wind fluid dynamic
identity to archetype
through eons filing
in slow iron pyrites
flash burning sediments
of clay, shale and feldspar
they are jones-ing for us
to skip our stones
over the river
trying to find
the right rhythm
of goodbye
hello, goodbye
the Sun
sculpt-bottoms its tosses
one after another
lattice to rust to losses
trestles, chases, legends
always meaning
to keep you
from leaving town
any side of the tracks
can be our lost cause
a host of things
in plain sight
can hide us
addicted to a view
with an aversion to
sudden changes
we weigh down evidence
hurriedly getting rid of things
we don't want to see
we paint memory
with a sense of pretty
to dress up our escapes
in the presented veins
of our ‘hainted’ highways
insulated for a coffin life
glass and metal
curves time, space
circadian division
diversion versus
immersion in
what a soul sees
looking up at
what the light
is seeking
like us, it is
paying attention
to the empty parts
we crave flesh
we call it quiet time
we are bats
we want our belly full
we start pinging radar
testing ourselves
limb to limb
we close our eyes
and wing sight
feeling our skin
we know what
has scarred and what
tells folks about us
where we’ve been
what stretch lengths
we’ve gone through
what racks emotions
even the avoided ones
the ones, we pocket
for ourselves
full of nostalgia
gone bad
we vicariously hunt
in the sounded worlds
curling preyed words
digestible bolus poems
darks we paint
in each thought
of the Sun
we dive with the stitches
the dividing stanzas
each raised hem
climbing every
high horizon, we can
we take care
in the slipped air
not to step near
the eternal hungers
of the mouths
of knowledge,
mindfulness
and domination
they linger in pools
waiting out eternities
because they, like us
are each, a night sky
wanting to fill itself
with what stories
of surrender
shadows tell
EJR ©
'hainted highways'...love it
ReplyDeleteThank You Diana...much appreciated...
Deletefav part:
ReplyDeletewe paint memory
with a sense of pretty
to dress up our escapes
in the presented veins
of our ‘hainted’ highways
we do clean up those memories the further we get from them...also like the connection in that last stanza as well to how we all are...
poetry as life, is a process...each day different from the last and the one next to be...somewhere in between...we watch where the words fall...Gratitude for comment...Edward
DeleteGratitude for stopping on by...Edward
ReplyDeleteBeautiful....makes me think....reflect on my "memories" ....like Brian.....my favorite.....
ReplyDeletewe paint memory
with a sense of pretty
to dress up our escapes
in the presented veins
of our ‘hainted’ highways
thank you so much, for saying such (I like that stanza,as well)...I appreciate you stopping by...blessed to have readers...
DeleteIt is that we may never know ourselves, it is so intended to keep the wonder perpetual and so on we go, back and forth, still looking, always looking.
ReplyDeleteThere is tremendous strength in the language of your piece, forceful; demands be read and re-read and then leaves thoughts uncertain.
I keep reading you if only for some faint notion that I will eventually figure it all out.
Cheers!