January 25, 2016

some of what I store inside my stories




some of what I store inside my stories

in mason jars from till and sow 
the rain and parade 
above, on the widow's walk...
each, a life cast iron 
rung in vignettes 
I could catch my death 
from most places yet 
here, when I 
am most alive, 
it seems, a certainty...

where would one go once bitten 
with a desire to be senselessly 
eager and torn into tattered remnants, 
where every relationship  
is an echo chorus ghosted chance, 
hoarded into your fading memories...

perhaps, poem is all that 
I've clutched at 
and held 
in a close-my-eyes-
so-as-not-to-see, hear or speak 
of being so rabid, randy 
and redolent again...

one's indignity is 
the ignoble-ignitable 
material of their soul...

have you ever seen 
a silo go up in one blow, 
tinder flint sparked dust 
jewel encrusted air, suspension of belief(s)
a webbed heavy summer time
what can be...

distilled, not to respond, save this 
a fireball and not a farmer left 
no none at all, following bliss 
just when he knew, heaven not so, deft...

EJR ©

1 comment:

  1. "I could catch my death
    from most places yet" ditto

    "where would one go once bitten
    with a desire to be senselessly
    eager" Love this.

    "perhaps, poem is all that
    I've clutched at
    and held" I appreciate the notion. I think I clutch the opposite though. The emptiness. The non-words. If I can ever achieve mute-tation, then I can maybe begin to love [myself].

    ReplyDelete