He has been cold all day long
it is July the sun is out
so of course it is wrong wrong from the start
from divinari, to divine or predict,
that which is said in a modern fashion
to color the bike rusting in the farmyard
or, after rain, rather than leap after thunder
and to predict before dark the shade of the lawn
the quiet misapprehension of sheds
where the ghosts, have some sense of shame
in the clamor they suggest with their shadows
the fresh creation of a pallid earth, redeems
that which is much worse; these shallow scenes.
How then voice grating on the empty palette
the berries ripening in a gross deceit, intimate
with sorrow arthritic in their decline
this wild cathedral dismal with disease
wrought and planted in the small mime
the wretched pain that was combed and mined
to seek first that which is not there
and in despair, to list simply the lines in the face of God.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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hmm....I think I'll have to read that again....
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Why them ghosts shameful? I would think that once a ghost we could be rid of that sort of thing. GEESH you mean I gots to be shameful even when I'm a ghoster someday?
This poem, which indeed I read when you posted it, doesn't seem quite finished. What else you got to say about this? This which is all rather ... rather... well let me go back up and read it again to get what word I'm looking for k. got it -- it sort is sort of hovering this
i don't think you qre quite done. This about poetry? or Poets? Or what? Got God in it or rather his/her/its wrinkles cause God vurry ancient. Seems.
Hey! I like the leap after the thunder cause yes. Indeed. Those Ghosts are they poets that were? Talking to the poets that are? Mostly everything you write sometimes has the ---the ---- foreshadowing of the bleakness you are a poet of now. and then. and also
Yup I just checked again. This about poet. But honestly, it ain't done. so you should write more and seek flow...
I'll be waiting for part 2.
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I keep wanting to say... how then the voice?? sumhow??
anyways.. this is wistful and wiles away the hours... the days, i love the rain and rusty bike, as if it matters if the rust is there or if the poet tells us of it and how it makes his mind tick over
i like this, it makes my mind tick over
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