Sunday, March 22, 2015

Page One : Small Book of Poetry to Be

Small Book of Poetry to Be

People are pieces.

Memories colliding,
locked in the firmament of
in a stain-glass fishbowl,
effectively duct taped to a huge lamp -
either blinding us,
or fleeing to the West-
what could we have thought -

That huge lamp up there is God?

Even now, even though,
we now know it could blow
us up to smithereens in a sunflare,
or that it
could in the mantle of its force,
bring an asteroid to bear
on our sunny days;
and we get up everyday..
doing what needs to be done.

Even still, we're
completely confounded by colours
and sounds,
inundated with information,
and our active presence in anything
fades in the sham of being.

Even in meditation
we're incomplete,
try as we may.

For no one is ever
everything all at once.

I find the light of joy
at the twilight edge
of misery.

And my poetry too
is incomplete,
like fragments of me.

Time shapes
to granite and slate

a song or painting,
and all their
pieces too.

I summon thee,
red spirit of the muse,
preserve me here for whence I fall
and lay me down in peace
at the foot of  my gravestone,
knowing my words live on..

"it started with page one.."

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