April 21, 2017

Può tutto essere detto come una poesia .............................. NaPoWriMo2017 #22

inside what's said,
 we are waiting words  
intended mentioned mended 
and the fences between 
water and circus
bread with dinner
small leaves when spring
all things said
like a poem

I'm outside the twentieth century looking back upon 
the age of space and race and other misguided pursuits 
of truth for science and reason alone 
Tom Robbins wrote or at least how I remembered he did 
that Descartes almost killed Pan 
seems Pan might not like 
the twenty first century much either ...
I live in a time and town
a culture of sight and sound 
that praises righteous death
when is it, Love catches its breath , here 

I dream in explorations 
carnal to carnage 
benevolent to beneficial 
bees, birds and their wonderful wings 

there is always 
going to be, a place 
we felt needed being there 
where we were wear 
for the sake of being there 

the stone passages were narrowing 
it smelled of torched stale air 
dancing, with the curious scent 
of rain lingering beneath us, 
we pressed on, our eyes widened 

some rode horses, others mules, some even walked 
and at night we camped and nourished our bodies and souls 
we watched the Lyrids pour from the Big Dipper 
glad to have Spring begin to peel Herself into the Boreals 

might and flight abide graveyard hides of elephants, 
everyone has the right moment that be coming for them 
for everyone has a portal to passage of what is and will be 
a journey to the higher selves we often catch glimpses of when dreaming 
we heard the drumming and the nautilus sky trumpeting stars 
and we tried to feel our way along the power lines, surfing electrical surges  
we said urge words out loud, no more things that killed without mercy 
for this kind of pride was not the lion kind but rather that desire 
for physical absolution, empty can and does become 
when now is filled to near burst 
with all those superimposed 
and dead Schrödinger cats 
we keep seeing when 
poison eating goes 
out of style 

CODA : an afterlude 

ratchety clatchety rickety flicking 
the ol' rust bucket ambled herky-jerkily 
with every combustion interloping 
in slow rust through the engine 
over the odd ruts of the gravel road 
we drove as much as we did, to keep moving 
we sat loosely, riding role with 
sways and leaning(s), being 'on the road' 
and every why we came to know 
little kingdoms and salvation(s) 
took root in the exhales to grow 
to Love like the ending of a poem 
sometimes, being all the time 
with me ...


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