|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 ...
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 ...