“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, June 8, 2019
Body
When composed
I have been most like a
lightly punctuated piece of prose.
I recently noticed this
when asked about tendencies
and putting ourselves into forms
or shapes.
When tasked
under grammatical conditions
we need not justify
why we do
to be understood through all the
various transitive verbiage.
Assembly was always required
of us
but never easy.
Only a certain grace found in
a harmless poem
could reflect lightly
a likeness of Others.
Our bodies of work
lie
in the white spaces
where there is room for the shadows
cast by the words beheld
and there are more than enough
glimpses of more
meaning
to be caught-
in mid-air-
afloat where we see
more than the sun setting in
(a day).
Image of writing by Joseph Carstairs, penned c. 1820 in [Public domain].
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Feather weather
Before I arose the tangerine sunrise squeezed its citrus air through my bedroom window dripping fresh pulpy nectar of a new day onto the co...
-
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...
-
The ship sailed West on Sunday The wind was too wild on Wednesday Our arrow plane rips the paper sky, severing space for itself, i...

No comments:
Post a Comment