Is this write a profanation of elegance?
Is also my life?
White dust of pulverized spirit-statues
settle upon my hair and beard.
I close my eyes ever so carefully,
and listen to late summer loons welcome our setting red orb.
So subtlety, their yielding covers my aspen-leaf, spring-voice.
So quietly, I barely noticed frost coming.
My snowfall hazel eyes turn a cool green, it seems,
as they opened to peer across a cooling, still blue lake.
It used to be surrounded by pine, willow and oak.
The trees...are houses, now;
willows weep mostly elsewhere, now.
In mid flight,
I gaze as old friends pull on their tinsel stocking caps and fly south.
My broken spirit streetlamp smile spreads warm rays of hope.
With forlorn acceptance, my lips relax in age.
I am not shrinking from darkness now.
I no longer fear it, as I step into its domain, if ever so briefly.
Deep pain brings deep beauty.
My eyes still sparkle at you.
Unnoticed? Am I really?
Across my unsuspecting brow, adventures of stupidity yielded their
spindly fingers to spread their comfort.
Their calm luster of love is still irresistible.
Please, remind me again, why should anyone have courage?
What music is it you said our sacred voice carried in its poetic affection?
Summarize, “so many motives, so little time”.
Oh, great and vigorous spirit, does
relief come in the winds of unlettered rhyme,
like remote, smiling corners of Siberia yielding a nobility of survival?
Or do we, in sharing sorrowful solitudes,
make uncrowned chorus-lines of free verse to elongate our scar seams,
Thus making more room to rest for the hoards of weary travelers?
Whom do we frailly comfort with our bare chested prayers?
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