One day
all your resentments and anger will dissolve
your daily concerns
will vanish, breath on a mirror…
your prejudices will no longer torment you
your skin color will have lost meaning
your gender will mean less
the things you had gathered to yourself
will pass to other hands
it will no longer matter what you were
wearing or not wearing
your hungers will cease to trouble you
sex will no longer drug you with desire
your hopes and dreams will be at an end
your opinions will be silenced
you will cease to stumble
you will know only the past.
That day
your worth will not
be measured by what you collected
but what you gave away
It won't matter who your friends were
or who your daddy was
but, who remembers you with a smile
and why they loved you.
One day
this will happen to you
the only thing left of you
will be your poem
rippling like an echo
radiating outward
until it becomes part of the background
a movement, a pulse
vibrating forever
woven into the delicate
fabric of the universe.
Know this
and live your poem
let it ring clearly
let it celebrate something
help it to light the truth
it will be here a long time
it will be what’s left of your beauty.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
The True Vine
(Passion Flower Vine and Buds by David Saltaire) |
Perhaps you are a mirror
for the poor and despised man
to show him the nobility
that he carries deep within
if he cares to see.
Perhaps you are a lover
of all the pitiless and blind
from your tower of open pain
measuring with telescopes
the mercy of the sky.
And maybe you are just
another wavering illusion
on horizons of parched sand
pulling along the hopeful
giving meaning to the void.
Perhaps you were drawn
from the bright nucleic acids
of our yearning to be something
more than mere survivors
on a cinder from a star.
Or, maybe
you just are.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Waterfire
“We know so very little about this strange planet we live on, this haunted world where all answers lead only to more mystery.”
― Edward Abbey
― Edward Abbey
how my reedfence
glowed
fluting, golden,
comforting,
familiar,
in the heat of
settling days.
The iron rolls of
clouds
shone over the
valley.
Mountains stood,
breathing,
offering bouquets
of rock
waiting
for the sun to drop
away
into nearly sudden
dark.
Winking lion sleepy
linger…
finally,
a pattering
song
rainchimes
water hollows
made of soft wood
printing soul tears
drumming
icesoft
so
the air exhaled
sweeter than
virgins,
pungent time
drank madly
rising Minerva-eye
mist.
far off
flash/flashed
krakatoa diamond
white/amethyst/
gray
fading swiftly
quietly indigo
and muttering.
obsidian shine
rivulets
snaked and
pooled
down
the
hills
and even
ladyreno
wearing cynical
neons
returns innocent
widefaced
child
holding the hand
of the biggest
bigness
it cannot
not now
not ever
really
forsake.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
She
("Angel With Lantern On An Old German Christmas Ornament" by David Saltaire) |
Oh, if she ever comes around
like the sun upon my bed,
oh, and then the field of gold
will lay on green and tender joy.
Now, if she ever visits me
the sky will be so blue
and I’ll ride the clouds like her,
I’ll be rain and ocean, too.
In the heart of everything
there’s a longing to return;
to see the mighty river rush
to join the mother sea again.
My time will always tumble, turn
mine will return once more.
You will see my face again
in the space between the trees.
Oh, now here she comes, now
in her gentle quiet way.
Yes, she waits to lead you out
through dim valley to the peak.
Somehow, you were afraid
now it’s all charade--
things you left behind
fall into bright dust again.
and, when she wakes you, then
lotus or rose, or dandelion.
true gold you’ll know again
as you stand by her right hand.
Oh, and when she comes, now
robes of diamonds, midnight blue,
I will rise and come to her
joy and triumph on my brow.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Diagnosis
(Image: Heart of Palm by David Saltaire) |
I see your poor heart
bleeding, beating, torn
underneath the opaque skin
of your words.
and there’s that one word
a dry patch, whitened and dull
itching, marked with desperate nails;
it needs healing.
There’s only one cure
for the pain of such scarring--
you shrink from it
because all cures can potentially, sting
but you need it.
it seems fiery and distant
but it’s closer than you think,
it’s better than you know.
Although you may have to go far to find it
blooming from tiny leaves of green
it grows in airy soil
and, god know, it’s very rare--
well, when you finally get close
it will open like a soft white rose
and you’ll see your own face
staring back at you with shining eyes
and that’s where the balm is.
bleeding, beating, torn
underneath the opaque skin
of your words.
and there’s that one word
a dry patch, whitened and dull
itching, marked with desperate nails;
it needs healing.
There’s only one cure
for the pain of such scarring--
you shrink from it
because all cures can potentially, sting
but you need it.
it seems fiery and distant
but it’s closer than you think,
it’s better than you know.
Although you may have to go far to find it
blooming from tiny leaves of green
it grows in airy soil
and, god know, it’s very rare--
well, when you finally get close
it will open like a soft white rose
and you’ll see your own face
staring back at you with shining eyes
and that’s where the balm is.
(Notes: written in response to another person's poem. The poet wanted feedback. Looking at it again, I may have been writing to myself as much as to the other person.)
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