73 posts tagged “poetry” (page 2)

glancing down you would not know towns dwelt blew the sea of foam

it was sluggish refusing to leave its lover of the night

I walked in the clouds and thought of the sky

Tiny pieces all dissimilar, interlock.
Combining differently each time,
creating something new, diverse.

A puzzle of uniqueness, butterflies,
worms, boxes, bills. Ever altering
atoms in fields of space react, diverge.

Transform the novas, mutate stars.
Enigmas modify from star-stuff
to flesh, limb, stone, dust.

Revision after revision,
editing words, lines.
Collecting inches
of paper at a time.
New England frugality
comes into play.

I put the paper
through the shredder,
creating long strips
with black spots and curves,
(like strands of DNA
grown in a petri dish).

Shoved in plastic bags,
taken to the compost
and mixed into the
decomposing heap.

When the time is right
I'll mulch my garden,
plant my strips of letters
in thick rich soil  which will
with luck, grow.

In the winter it startles me.
The memory of pain,
sutures between my thighs.

Strings of utility lines,
in succession down
and down.

Scalpels bright sharp edges
cleaved a passage into light.
Leaving testimonial witness.

My body could create
and nurture life but
would not give it forth.

The violinist walked with grandeur
to the front of the podium,
bowed to the conductor,
placed a black padded cloth
on this shoulder, brought his violin
slowly, precisely, to its comfortable
home and rested his chin upon
the leather clad buttress.

The left hand held the bow, in exact
imitation of the conductor's baton,
moving with the rhythm and beat
until it magically found itself hovering
above the strings, like a hummingbird
sipping nectar.

Waiting for his moment, a monument
of stillness. Cued with a nod, the arm
moved and music flowed like a river.

The soft sway of a calm, lazy brook.

Quick white flash rapids, turbulence,
ascending the heights permitted by gravity,
the dizzying descent and splash
to earth.

Eddies of stillness and quiet.

The violinist became giver and lover.
The maker of dreams.
The music.

A tattered book of poems,
found in the childhood at a flea market.
The binding, title, and author's name
gone, all the outside pages faded.
Filled with water marks,
a well read book.

The red well, old and broken
a pail attached. Filled with water
and ready to be ladled
into cups.

composed
body erect
mouth open
prepared

no sound
no thought
still-
a total blank

The fear remembered,
is forgetting how
to get up, once
felled legs lay crumpled,
and the mind can't
quite twist around itself
to remember up from down.

Know the word use it every day,
can even say it.

Neurons are firing but the synapses
are blocked by brain damage.

It's there, hiding-
that word would lead the way,
give direction.

Think round, puzzle.

You are mine!
I've found the way-
how.

You bought the house on the hill
cleared all the land beneath it
creating a blank
sand brown
path

it rained memories of
a precarious playhouse
the slide down the slide
to land in the mud
broken