31. Elsething
without
as a form of being
(if you can
tell what I mean)
structure
is eclectic
how you put
together that
beingness
defines
the lack of
something is still
something
else
or:
without
as a form
of being
oneself
the pleasure of aloneness
simple
down to one
a single
I
who sees twice
as far
the pressure of aloneness
at times
like these
(night)
and in these
places
(darkness surrounding
a globe of light)
I am the one left
to myself
or write
there are so few words
to use to say anything
we use them for nothing
instead
to save space
in the cherry orchards
where you live ripe
with sunlight and greened shadows
the fruit given up
and the fruit saved
are identical
the branches behold
shadowleaf
windsun
what part of something else
will something be?
where are the edges
of beauty and from which
direction do they approach?
if I could live past it,
I might be there
the air
giving you flight
tip of the wing on
a turn and the earth
asks for your body
your life
the weight of it
you feel and fall yet
don’t
an arc
as a turn
and what you carry
forth
a young daughter
the voice of her
the voice of here
the voice you hear
you distinguish
between sunlight and singing
but to no particular purpose
the fragrances of the earth
surround you
closing in
abundance of greening
though we grey out of it
and towards
something else
maybe small
quite large
an apartnesss
of that discrete person
you call I
I call you
every singularity
of every sung life
ablaze and blowing out
as a form of being
(if you can
tell what I mean)
structure
is eclectic
how you put
together that
beingness
defines
the lack of
something is still
something
else
or:
without
as a form
of being
oneself
the pleasure of aloneness
simple
down to one
a single
I
who sees twice
as far
the pressure of aloneness
at times
like these
(night)
and in these
places
(darkness surrounding
a globe of light)
I am the one left
to myself
or write
there are so few words
to use to say anything
we use them for nothing
instead
to save space
in the cherry orchards
where you live ripe
with sunlight and greened shadows
the fruit given up
and the fruit saved
are identical
the branches behold
shadowleaf
windsun
what part of something else
will something be?
where are the edges
of beauty and from which
direction do they approach?
if I could live past it,
I might be there
the air
giving you flight
tip of the wing on
a turn and the earth
asks for your body
your life
the weight of it
you feel and fall yet
don’t
an arc
as a turn
and what you carry
forth
a young daughter
the voice of her
the voice of here
the voice you hear
you distinguish
between sunlight and singing
but to no particular purpose
the fragrances of the earth
surround you
closing in
abundance of greening
though we grey out of it
and towards
something else
maybe small
quite large
an apartnesss
of that discrete person
you call I
I call you
every singularity
of every sung life
ablaze and blowing out
I love this one!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Anne. It is a struggle every day to write these, and some days come more easily than others. It will be interesting to see what my cousin, not a reader of poetry, makes of this, especially since she has no idea it's on its way to her, or what it is, or why I'm sending it.
ReplyDeleteGeof