Tuesday, November 15, 2011

3 poems found, resurfaced, raw

Not my favorite genre. That's why I experiment with it from time to time.


Pondering Vishnu

…and now the dreamt dream dreams, and sons carry fathers on their backs. Still the rock needs defining, and the hypnotic water reflects deeper yearnings than the sturdiest of minds. The arithmetic of soaring doves, the pattern of a pinecone expresses perfection finer than a² + b² = c².
            The supreme soul, all pervading, let the eye in heaven expound, let the blue clouds communicate their comprehension, and distill the dew of familiarity over the quiet earth. Clap shut the books, abandon the cramped classrooms, and teachers drop the chalk. Let the dream still be dreamt the way it always has, supinely, two eyes staring into the vastness of heaven and wondering what it all means.




“Things that are Beautiful”

Paper thin clouds coruscating slivers of red veins on an apricot sunset
Groves of yellow aspen seizure with light from an autumn breeze
White glacial escarpments nose dive into chilled Arctic blue
Fields of green clover blanket the humpbacked land
Pitch black sky accentuates astral eyes of light
Gray pockmarks cover Luna’s cheeks
Rows of white crosses
Vapors
Of
Water
 Descend from the sky
Wild horses hoofs’ drum desert stone
Ocean Waves shatter along myriad shores
Line upon line of arrayed tulips rainbow the ground
Mountain streams converge then plummet into deep pools
Resonant songs of morning birds usher in the bright new day
A fly tangled in a cobweb bounces and awakens the sleeping spider

…I watch as she performs the task of folding the towels in exact squares, creasing them with conciseness, stacking them in rows of symmetrical perfection. I watch all this and I know I am caught in a trouble that is beyond repair. 






“Waiting for Fall”

A lone man in the garden must ponder everything—give a name to everything—even to a nameless shape that twists inside—the shadow that clouds the mind.
My family tree is deciduous.
Its leaves must fall to the ground
—blanket the earth with the impotent,
lifeless,
discarded carcasses
—good for nothing but crackling under the feet of little children and leaving bare the thing that breathed life into them.
But leaves do not drop until the fall.
The children must wait.






1 comment:

  1. Things that are beautiful was meant to form the hourglass on the back of a black widow, and the end was to signify that I had been caught in the web and could do nothing but wait for the venom.

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