A single image
motivates these words
that come –
their poetry too,
and the love of it.
Words piled up
on the edge of thought,
ready to be set free –
intact with integrity,
complex still, their exit
as they struggle to shape
a sense of worth.
How brave their black
rests, solemn on the white
of the page – like flowers
in a field, born there
in a field, born there
in exaltation, readying
themselves for the
magnitude of the task
at hand – their burst into life.
at hand – their burst into life.
.....
Beneath the window
where I do my homework,
scribbling hard recent musings
attached to this beautiful day –
attached to this beautiful day –
words and mind co-mingle,
desparate to keep in touch
desparate to keep in touch
amidst the swell of perception.
The mind, a needy beggar
generously feasting on words
in want of their singular vibrato,
generously feasting on words
in want of their singular vibrato,
that steadily gyrates, heaving within.
.....
.....
But, I wonder still,
what, if anything,
becomes of all
that is left unspoken,
unsurfacing because
of the dialogue's
penchant for darkness.
Enigmatic, the silence
of each word's
of each word's
abstruse aloofness –
their shyness mocked
by the hand that writes
by the hand that writes
as they resist the chaos
that is this poem –
this mess of words
this mess of words
caught struggling
within their own
within their own
unregulated bloom.
.....
In the poem’s growth
it is hoped that a view,
if willed, will unfold.
if willed, will unfold.
As angular fortitudes
are cast horizontally
across surfaces of white –
stares of pitched theorems
swim in elliptical space
and in time something essential
will take shape, arising out of
something once imagined.
will take shape, arising out of
something once imagined.
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