I want one dayjust one
without the words
launching it
to say:
we need
to do
this
and
we need
to do
that
Don't you think?
There are days
and sometimes weeks
where if I could put my hands
in a drawer
and lock them away . . .
I'd be better off
I would gladly die a thousand deaths
than live the day
this day
again
There are days that change
nothing
and
there are days that change
everything
This morning
I walked out my front door
to fields and meadows
blooming hues
of buzzing golds
and brilliant blacks
floating
sex
machines
banshees
riding
roughshod
you could almost
hear
the roses
shriek
and
the tulips
look
the
other
way
Damn
I
was
jealous
The evening
this evening
the landscape
is as the moon
grey
barren
cratered
the sound of nothing
whistling
as
nothing
whistles
the
sound
of
death
after
death
has
gone
Imagine if your family
lived on the moon
and each night
you watched them rise
and wave their arc
across your sky
and imagine if
night after night
the gentle rising
the humble falling
light reflected
life alive
was
your
life
And imagine if
on this night of
nights
the sky of black
remained
without its pearl
its alabaster coin
and where there
was life
was
no
more
Fall your nuded knees
upon the uncooked rice
and bleed your blood for me
the blood a father bleeds
when the idea
dies
When I die
I want to die alone
as I have lived
let the breeze
strum the strings of grass
and the trees whistle
as wood in wind
How does it feel
to be a house of cards
collapsed
your life
once built
once mighty
hopes and dreams
gone
How does it feel?
It doesn't
life slipping away
no feeling
nothing to hold on to
nothing to foothold
no belay
not numb
not nothing
this is it
the door opens
only
I don't see the light
Sadness is a smile
you can't manage
though you see them
everywhere
4 comments:
This poem is a rambling mess and I leave it that way because the day it reflects was equally a rambling mess. To give it order and structure and a better flow would be to sin against the record, to stain the truth with the cold hands of an editor and sully the is in "it is what it is." I did, for mercy's sake yesterday, extract the poem within a poem that I called Banshees. I thought it deserved to live a life apart, but its home will always be here.
You are right; it is how it is. The rambling has its own order, and it works effortlessly. The fact that you made the scene within Banshees stand out as it did for you is a successful, brilliant move. Thank your for sharing.
Unordered and unstructured in the conventional sense perhaps, but from reader's point of view also, it is what it is, and because it is written as it is, all the more moving, all the more admirable.
Thank you both for reading and commenting. Always noted and always appreciated. :-)
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