Reflections on a Poem
Writing a Poem by Starlight
Inspired by Images
Poems by Kevin
Thanks to Bud for inspiration
Poems to Listen to
My grandmother used to talk of "streakers"
in Central Park as
daring urban pirates who removed their clothes
to sail through the crowds.
I imagine she wished she could join them,
freeing herself of her upbringing so she could dash out
amidst the wide-eyed public and maybe catch someone's attention
for just a moment.
Fingers cupped around her mug of tea,
passing a cookie across the table to me,
she no doubt felt landlocked in life
while all I could wonder about was,
where did all their clothes go?
Why is it that every time you whisper,
I see lightning
flashing across the horizon
with sharp lines snapping and crackling;
but whenever I hear myself talk,
I only hear thunder
rumbling deep inside
on inaudible frequencies that shimmer and fade.
I'm convinced
the book is the picture that holds the fortunes of many;
Here, inside this form, a story unfolds,
and I unwrap myself from its tangle of words
in order to find the end of the sentence,
stranded here on the head of pin they call a period
while the world goes dancing on and on
without me.
No I won't fly like that;
Your heart beats too fast for me.
My wings flap slowly
and I would rather let the wind
carry me than me, carry the wind,
so, no, I won't fly like that;
although I marvel at your speed
and wonder at what you miss
in your rush to get there so quick.
No, I won't fly like that;
I'm content to float here
where the air is so still
I can fade away and think.
In the orchard, I climb trees
in places where the branches twist and turn
as if they are a road map to some forgotten place
and my eyes travel these roads to remember.
I swerve to avoid the humming bees,
and ignore the other travelers along the road
as I reach out my fingers to grasp the treasures
of time and space.
In the orchard, I remember the taste of memory
as sweetness and sour
and bite into life with my eyes closed,
thinking always that this moment may soon disappear.
I rest, weary, on the damp grass
and gaze up through the branches, again,
my vision zigzagging towards the blue sky above;
my world crunching in my mouth.
In the orchard, I climb trees
in places where the branches twist and turn ...
Video
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Audio
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- http://www.box.net/shared/static/01ivmerzao
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MrHodgson 2 years ago
These are poems that have been inspired by images shared by my friend, Bud the Teacher.