February 3, 2016

gl-ambrosia



in my mind I'm a-dandering 
in a cutty-pipe inglenook
casting a glamour ambrosia 
winnock-ed and unchancy 
upon those who dare look

(and so it became a poem/in succubus calm tricks of the 
eyes/street corner wise/with ambulatory skills then needed to 
assemble the post parade in triage)

I told myself, never eat until stuffed 
but now you're here, I am 
making an exception, I am making 
eating all of you the rule

these storms, in me
of having a conscience 
or a conscious apathy 
are both a tide and spawn 
gamble on eroding dawn
as they roll on up 
spotted
leopards
with bits
of blue eyes
getting through

a back line
of bird calls
trapping me inside
the burgeoning pour
of belly rain this day
what if I were the bot 
and not body and soul
what if I am
just bones with holes 
where light got in

what if each life 
was mostly connected somehow 
by how we sorted 
our seasonal movements  
the desires, we took ownership of...
the innate music 
we felt the need to be part of 
needs to belong to some things 
we could bleed out with 
that were wholly ours, like...

the maples here being poems too
nearing, the end of Winter 

the tall and small things 
beneath the clandestine roars 
of clocks and calendars, counting 
reason or not to be 
in ever-circling time...

elliptical rituals 
heralds, trumpets and flowers 
seeded beneath the roar of wind
maples here are tine-d and tied 
spine-d thin fingers
reaching for all the words 
we want with
when filling in
the views 


EJR ©

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