I'm working on a manuscript, getting it ready for publication and I find that I am rewriting some of the pieces . . . this is one of them.
Oh return to me wrinkled sage who once wandered
the mind scape inside my head, give unto me your
benediction of chanting voices and poetry scribbled
upon clouds that drift down from Heaven.
Oh I know, I was innocent then, still able to catch fleeting
glimpses of passivity floating through the fibers
of the tarnished veil.
I was hungry to uncover the mystic face that encompasses
all that is unknown, I eagerly anticipated a sign,
a vision that would lead me down the
appropriate corridor, wisdom and insight whispering
from its elusive walls.
But somehow I have come to stand behind a frigid,
non-porous vacuum and I can no longer see
the delicate birds in the garden.
Have they simply sought another horizon where their nests
are built with a more delicate touch, or did I drive
them away with a disparaging tongue?
It was so much easier then — the anvil of pain that rested
upon my youthful shoulders was lighter and not
decorated with black amulets of human misery
or the weight of self doubt.
Too sensitive in nature, bordering on a neurotic form
of necromancy with all its dark mysterious trappings
that will not allow the spirit to divorce itself from
the body?
Perhaps . . . but my desert is littered with shrapnel
and the mournful faces of souls stuck in a providence
of non-release.
I can’t find anywhere to sit down and rest, even the
moon’s face has been covered with a curtain
of anxiety.
When I look outside the lighthouse of my eyes all I can
see are boats of shipwrecked children, all I can hear
are plaintive voices weeping from what seems to be
the final elegy of humanity.
So tell me, is something really going on here, or have I
completely misinterpreted the ongoing journal
of humanity’s ancestral widow?
Oh I want to reside once again inside that garden where
the ragged nightmare I am witnessing is abolished.
I can’t touch the naked breast or be enfolded in the scented
arms of the green goddess who allows the root
of the spirit to be nourished in the primal light
that reflects off the butterfly’s wing.
I can no longer experience the rapture of the snail at midnight,
the phosphorescent water that bathes the
whale, the illumination that bursts through this tapestry
of decadence like one million stars falling upward in
the firmament.
So return to me wrinkled sage and impart your most
benevolent season into the orchard inside my head.
I can feel its trees preparing to erupt in a profusion of
blossoms and the insects are pregnant with a yearning
to pollinate.
In a list
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Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 13 of 13
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Marc this is why you are the subject of the " North American Treasure" your writing, is truly a Gem to the readers eyes!!!!
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I'll meet you
"Oh I want to reside once again inside that garden where
the ragged nightmare I am witnessing is abolished."
in that garden, my brother...
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This was quite well done. I really loved the imagery in this piece, it was so captivating to read something so detailed and accurate. I especially liked this part:
So tell me, is something really going on here, or have I completely misinterpreted the ongoing journal
of humanity’s ancestral widow?
I really liked how you compared things in this piece, so many excellently crafted metaphors and personifications. Wonderfully done, I really liked this a lot. I would be very surprised if this weren't published, and some day, lots more people will enjoy your beautiful words. All the best, KP
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Wow!
Your descriptions are amazing, very sophisticated. Something I need to be able to soak up, or learn, somehow.
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The poet makes several pleas poetically very well,often readers are so weighed down with the weight of their own woe that if they read a rant they mentally switch off as if they may be overloaded otherwise,although seemingly the pivotal point within this is where are the words for that which I wish to voice the poet manages to voice them with enough nuance that that are felt as natural and the delivery of these with sotto voice beseeching works,the reference to "I have no place to sit and rest" is simple but effective at being demonstrative of how deeply the character cares,for wherever the body may be,the spirit and soul are still searching and this made the reader ache for 'tis the truth,such cares are not coloured by a need to cast a vote on a selected day and then walk through life as if job done,these cares colour the soul in shades of grey when it yearns to only feel the radiance of all colours unobscured.The reference to the moon face being closed by the curtains was also effective but the poet leaves the posssibility of seeing the world illuminated again open by the usage of curtain,for a curtain may be pulled across a window to block out and pulled back to unblock to allow light in,for clearer vision.
The voice within this is not faltering within it's true love ways,it just asks how does one remain able to find the ways,akin to a parent wondering how to quantify an age appropriate explanation for their offspring upon needing to impress them with life skills,in effect the poet replies to his own questioning mind,he may not know where or how to find the words at times when they trail too far behind a transcript to be written but they are not completely lost,they are resting too,perhaps when a poet loses his voice it is as pivotal to rest it as it is for a singer to rest his voice which his instrument upon overworking it the timbre of the voice changes,he is then aghast,he does not want the wrong inflections,but by resting and reflecting there is regeneration,the singer again able to sing and the poet that utilizes the muse free time rather than seek it's reappearance is then ready to meld anew when it does,as it always does,appear again.End of thoughts provoked by the poets penmanship and very best wishes with the publication.
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Great Job
Hey there nice poem, its very outspoken and very interesting. I liked the whole poem. Keep up the good work. Best wishes.
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really cool. i love the wordings. i particulary like the last stanza
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Pensive and contagious!
Hello there. It's so very interesting to see your wide window of thought with the tiny mirrors most of us hold to view.
Precise. Tight. Slimmed to publications' criteria.
I love this example of transitional thought.
"I was hungry to uncover the mystic face that encompasses
all that is unknown, I eagerly anticipated a sign,
a vision that would lead me down the
appropriate corridor, wisdom and insight whispering
from its elusive walls"<--- gorgeous.
"I can’t touch the naked breast or be enfolded in the scented
arms of the green goddess who allows the root
of the spirit to be nourished in the primal light
that reflects off the butterfly’s wing". So delicate. I'd watch the prepositions there. On another day, read it aloud. I have the same kind of edits.
Thank you for exampling. Let me feature this for you. It's so good! Thank you!
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Thoughtful to extreme
I think I know the answer, as I have been there once before, then I turned around and found it, it was there all the time, I had just wondered off.
I feel for you and you make me feel me and feel alive and more.
Keep up the good works. You inspire me to be better then I am
B D
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wow..intensely poetic, I think I got a new wrinkle in my brow with this one, soo rich..soo much everything, it almost hurt. The ending was perfect.
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Such strong feelings and images of despair. The world does seem to be going to hell in a handbasket, but I pray we can still find glimmers of hope and possibilities of change for a better future ...
"So return to me wrinkled sage and impart your most
benevolent season into the orchard inside my head.
Thank you for sharing this heartfelt write. Wish you much success with your manuscript.
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this is hard core art right here. poetic art. so many visions painted into eachother, lengthy descriptions created by metaphors, sending the readers thoughts in so many directions.... lovely poetry, and if known, i would buy this kind of writing. just beautiful, no beating around the bush here!
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"Oh I want to reside once again inside that garden where
the ragged nightmare I am witnessing is abolished.
I can’t touch the naked breast or be enfolded in the scented
arms of the green goddess who allows the root
of the spirit to be nourished in the primal light
that reflects off the butterfly’s wing."
Ahhh, Marc...what a glorious penning this is, my Friend...So worthy of publication, Sweetie...I can hardly wait to obtain a copy...Keep us apprised, Poet...
Wanda
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