April 26, 2016

drinking in a whimsy steeped fortunate eye play ...............................................................................#NaPoWriMo2016






you said dive in 
bleeding only begins 
the fun and frolicking 

thistle wrist-ing 
flat stone skipping 
across a still lake at night 
do you count the leaves 
by tick, tock and pricks clocks play
or do you just watch 
poet stains pour themselves
between pain worn flowers 
and where all the water 
goes they ignore 

how sweet is 
the nectar scavenge 
of when we ravage 
with wanting to know
when what we humans 
have to give 
is the only temple 
that matters to anyone 

and as with most 
friends and lovers
we were at once 
and before brother sister 
father mother 
or any other of
the yay-saying familial 
or knots to be 
we question connection 
and particle adherence 
the empty valence shells 
spell out deep pools 
of wonder and awe 

are we meant for living 
while creative and free 
or is service to others 
meaning to be our wishful 
wistful wrists full 
of thinking we see 

rhetorically
the poem 
pretends 
there is an end  
here or there while 
expression lingers 
nearing a silence 
masquerading as 
an abyss that is
calling our names 
tide and sea 
walk in the rain
happy to be you 
happy to be me 

EJR © 

1 comment:

  1. This is so good. So so so good.

    I like how you put some De-tea in the title. Also that the word "play" puts this silly borderline-painful tickle-fest up on a stage for the world to see.

    I'm especially drawn to the opening lines.

    No. I don't count anything. I only watch my feet as they take steps. Or not. Maybe I just watch the clouds. Or the raindrops. Or the words whispered between the wind's bent fingertips.

    "do you count the leaves
    by tick, tock and pricks clocks play
    or do you just watch
    poet stains pour themselves
    between pain worn flowers" ... All those word-doubles! Leaves, ticks, pricks, clocks, watch, pour. So many words that mean something obvious, within the context given, but also that mean something else underneath.

    "how sweet is
    the nectar scavenge" ... Love this. I also see "house we eat is the necked-her s cave gene." Or jeans. Which is oh-so-close to orgies. :P

    "when what we humans
    have to give
    is the only temple
    that matters to anyone" ... This makes me think of scripture that talks about how the body is the temple and it must be treated as such. But here, you're saying that the intangibles that we have to give are actually the temple(s) ... and should be treated as such.

    "meaning to be our wishful
    wistful wrists full
    of thinking we see" ... Your word-layering is evocative. Wrists full of thinking. Of thinking [that] we see [when we probably don't]. ... Meaning is our wish, full. Come to fruition.

    "the poem
    pretends
    there is an end
    here or there" ... This goes back to the relationships you mentioned earlier. You're kind of rolling everything into one big ball of love goo. All the world, all your relationships, past, present, future ... you're lumping energies into a force of just happy-to-be, happy-to-feel, happy-to-connect. Silence is a reverie before reconnection, perhaps.

    "an abyss that is
    calling our names
    tide and sea" ... This makes me think of an abbess, overseeing all the peoples and forces of the world(s), calling them all together, telling the waves when to roll, and the rain when to kiss which needful faces.

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