Passion does not fit inside a paradigm.
The steeple-topped mountains, the
crevices and latches--the obstacles--
are not reasonable habitats for
the wild gesticulations of emotion.
I cannot fit what I feel into a message,
and neither sound nor sense can
rally into being something unsteeped
in the pillars of presence.
Presence is the word.
I am not there, but you are not here,
so as far into our own minds we can fall
freely
like blind rabbits chasing mice.
But what about human fecundry,
those little peculiarities that make us
teeter with irrationality?
What's to say
for a spontaneous lack of pedantry?
This poem is no exception.
If I'm inclined,
I can flex my eyelids like rifles
and imagine the waves of your hair
blazed like thundershots across the fiery sky.
Comments
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love the vocabulary..it broadens the minds and makes the poem more interesting(well to me at least}it very detailed..
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Passion is but a dance with music fiery racing in the blood. Not to be laced into a box but allowed to burn away our fear of chance and let us play the course of love in a land of risk. If we are not present to the moment we stand within then it is unlikely we will hear the music or the magic when it begins. Often in our somber thoughts we find the ashes of a fire that burned and we were not present for. We are sources of creation and entertaining bull but one changes and makes a difference in our lives and they other just capriciously allows us to avoid all the uncomfortable stuff and fill our homes with too much stuff.
Like the poem. I would pay a little more attention, perhaps, to your own natural lyricism and let it come forward and used as a tool.
Peace & Light,
Tom B.
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