I don't write, I paint myself blind with words...diogenes herded...ignorance...gilded cages...filling up on beauty unleashed...free will's maddening fractures...eyes that need to smell to see...
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 ©
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Love the ending:
ReplyDelete"places we capture scents
to put in jars, places we open to again
with a twist, places a soul insists
our bones remember"
P.S. Now I'll think of you every time I pick up a tampon.
ReplyDeleteThe universe is always in a giving mood...
Delete