April 23, 2017

restorative curative alternative altar native naive poetry ................................................. NaPoWriMo2017 #23

image via NASA

pleas and kneading the rise of light beyond the stars 
we were aware where wear was a ware, again 
poem and I were this diode light fixture 
we were spindled with curiosity ...

earth day weighs ways we wade, 
mists in morning, mourning hunger 
for the water skimmers and grass clingers 
there are bent knee troubadour storks, 
plumbing their babies 
womb waiting themselves, 
ovum and seed, Life as bleeding Love ...

though we ain't perceived it as such 
as amassed community  isn't much thought of 
because as Brooks from Shawshank Redemption said 
the world of nowadays went and got itself in a great big hurry ...
I suppose that is why we need 
artists tripping through themselves 
exclaiming expressing or extrapolating  
that their souls are why dolls 
with dirty faces race us to where 
we need to be wrapped 
in solitude sometimes ...

when I was younger
I would read elegant to macabre futures 

they would say, fantasize with me 
Poe and Verne would say 
can we imagine technology 
taking us to a way back when right then is
words lifting the soul from pages, 
sagely letting go with surrender ...

poem says, say something pithy here, Edward 
and I laugh, heartily from the inside 
to outside myself 
I hope I am never sick of more joy 
may I hold myself a held baby bird palmed 
against the construencies of what reality means ...

poem says, we will not become coral reefs 
blighted bleached blemished, 
we may not always be Kermit green 
but sometimes we are Peter Lorre sheen-ing it 
like gas spilling gas in the gutters while it rains ...

I remember South Troy alleys smelled of coal 
and wood fires and I remember saying to myself 
that by not saying it sometimes 
I could get caught in the algorithm 
of what these are, what poems are here, 
all the unseen pieces of me ... 

each time a poem arrives, 
some newborn holiday falls into place, 
a pile of destiny 
a once and maybe 
the message it seems, 
is to listen 
is for me ...

booking meteors 
I watch the deciduous trees begin to eat the sky, 
this night is frog quiet, draped owl song-ed, 
the silhouetted horizon is velvet belly soft, 
hung in bone fuzzy sway melodies, 
red elms, bur oaks, catalpas, black walnut, sugar maples, hickory 
and all the other obscure angiosperms here 
they pierce and poke 
driving the stanzas ...

conifers in northern climes, however 
rhythm the seasons 
they spend summer days in shade 
a warm quiet background score 
while all the leafy instruments play ...

lying back watching with magic eyes 
I am looking for the ancients 
to scratch fleeting bits of color 
into the inky black above me ...

I start to get cold, 
I start thinking about 
getting ready for work 
I am always ready to play 
again to work and again to say ...

because just as the poem 
serves two purposes, so do I ...


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