“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sunday, April 22, 2018
Surname
Five-hundred generations since writing
and gathering, hunting and making
Families have failed
to evolve
at a decent pace.
My own stagnant genetic make-up,
imagination and desire
to do, to be, to come, to rise
higher
hovers-
inert for three generations.
An only child understood odds
and ends,
I had two children,
one son, one daughter,
two opportunities
to raise human beings
the right way.
I have left
all extended family
I have left a legacy
of language,
I have stoked creative fires,
I have drained all the juice,
I have praised
living self-lessly.
I have risen².
Painting by Paul Peel [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Tres (trace)
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
This world is not for breath for feelings also come and go. As hard and light as Push and pull Go. Busy hands and bees-electricity, alter...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...
No comments:
Post a Comment