Here as present as I can be I wait on the stillness of the city’s sound,
caution myself for having never listened before
At the portal of the day and watch for the remnants of what was to come.
And now, the beginning sounds of birds and water outside
Disturb my ears and they mingle and speak to themselves.
I make out a word, the buildings
glisten revealing a warm grayness as I watch, yes, as my eyes wonder
among the figures and cars on the street. I am strangely moved and
The reserve in “Amo et avanti,’ and in “Return.”
I am beginning a new life and I can’t be with you anymore. I am
Leaving for San Francisco and I won’t be here anymore. I am
Breaking with the path, December 1965. But where did you go my Cliff-hanger?
You, stirred up, with the bristling thoughts I
recall, and I try to hear the purr of your anger. I cannot understand
the broken petals, the leaves on the table,
yet life is more than thunder. Those who drew you away did not
a plane ticket, now dust, slipped from a hand
Is mere paper for bright transfer and redundant promises.
Than the bright transfer and redundant promises I retain in
Across the years in faded pages a voice breaking
identical with the wind outside my window, a reality come present again,
Like the internet crackling with news of the day,
there is the joyful itch of my hands, a shelter from the past,
and the itch of my ear for new sounds, love. My eyes ache
before the screen, itself a window for my room, What
Zealous and abrupt, sticks in my mind, like the morning call
on the telephone, not today, no adventure, that openness
to the local event, however drear and profane, here, where my children
visit, and where peace and paradise are not the same, as the wind and the window
dominate. “Go forward,” the poet said,
to what comes on its own,” the imprint of an aleatory pattern here
the mark for the boundary, no boundary, “amo et avanti, mes amis”
in the whisper
from the walls, from my mind, from tomorrow, like the birds
And the rain, where I am now, alone and not alone.
Oh, the stones not yet cut.
Your friend says, “Oh, the stones not yet cut.”
Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 06/26/2011 01:56AM by petersz.
Is this a current reflection Pete, or one that has simmered on the back burner for a while?
This is a fiction I composed as a knock-off of a poem by Ed Dorn in an attempt to learn from his writing.
whatever it is....I liked it.