December 30, 2015

quahog pearls




quahog pearls 


what rare odd 
calm clam wobbles 
they wrap around parasites, 
necessity tightly collared 
to a shelled survival probably...

grains of sand 
are how we tell it 
being how the stories 
we hold under bowed glass 
have been told, 
sold and rolled 
on the strings 
of culture 
and history 
we fight hard 
not to know...



<---this next part is about, a made up word of mine--->



because, I react, to commentary, 
sometimes, it a-muses me 
to know that some of you folks are want
to do so, and fetchingly too 
for instance  
in this poem solicit 
an illicit stack of stanzas did sit
with me while finding things 
I thought of, as "fadwils" 
per se, and I would be saying 
nothing intrinsic about 
what they are or weigh
upon, maybe too, they ponder 
every place, they ever came from 


(a "fadwil" being a tightly bound round fingers bit of tissue or 
otherwise light absorbing type of paper for the purpose 
of emergency blotting when a woman might bleed 
or otherwise become more than moist, unexpectedly)

are we made to hear sirens 
said led lambs to the lions 
are we not here, to find 
what human desire is...

very often, in our whorled whirled worlds 
we are connected, only, by fictional 
points of reference 
e.g. a nautilus for spine 
the tine ready supplications 
and interludes of elation(s) 
bargained for satisfaction(s) 
what's sown between 
our current life's spool 
and how our souls 
can be riveted in an awe 
that glues us to symbols
and the symphonies inside 
every amnion that becomes 
a poem...

and because we humans 
all know, home, where 
the heartbeat is, 
is something, we like 
in a pretense of keep 
something we hold, ghost 
and leap, something to carry 
around with what, we 
often are: a memory, 
a map and a host 
of those places 
we know to go to 
places of cages and breath 
places presented as life and death 
places near and places far 
places we capture scents 
to put in jars, places we open to again 
with a twist, places a soul insists 
our bones remember 
to know it exists...

EJR ©

3 comments:

  1. Love the ending:
    "places we capture scents
    to put in jars, places we open to again
    with a twist, places a soul insists
    our bones remember"

    ReplyDelete
  2. P.S. Now I'll think of you every time I pick up a tampon.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. The universe is always in a giving mood...

      Delete