It’s five in the morning as I hurriedly push
a button to awaken you to our morning
together. You rise and blink, like the sun
filtering rays through a cloud-filled sky.
I sip my hot tea, as I drop my fare, one stroke
at a time, onto the keyboard. Anxiously, I wait
for you to whisk me away as I anticipate
his warm greeting, his sharing of midnight dreams
laid out so carefully in poetic form, while I slept.
No, he won’t meet me at any station, when
I arrive. He will have already gone about
his daily life, tending the garden or maybe
walking through the fields that he loves so well.
Conjuring up new visions of splendor to share.
These are the new times, when independence
is a blessing, while our lovers wait, reverently
in a space that technology has yet to conquer.
Arriving, I make my way to the place where
writers gather and peruse the room quickly,
looking for his name. I click on the link and suddenly
I am whisked into a new space and a river of words,
his words, that bounce and flow across my stream
of consciousness. I think to myself, what a gift,
and one that can last longer than a dozen red roses
or a candlelight dinner. It doesn’t really matter
that he isn’t mine, or that I spend time watching
his words unravel life, for that is his space.
No, I enjoy this other side of him, that unabashed
romantic, that can share his private thoughts
without the burden of confrontation. I can love
him unconditionally in this, a space of true freedom.
I drift back in time, to how I used to meet these kind
of poetic lovers. I’d find them in old, dusty pages,
long after they had left behind their legacy and traveled
to that yet unknown space. No longer breathing their
breath into the atmosphere or watching the world
unravel from present day catastrophes.
Presence was not something that I had in common
with them, and I found myself traveling backwards
in time and space. Always deciphering their ancient
tongues like a translator of a foreign language.
Now … in this present space, our innermost selves
are being knitted daily into a tapestry of words
and left in a space where searching eyes scan
the horizons for storms or sunshine.
Cyberspace - this poet’s spacious home!
© 2008 Joy A. Burki-Watson
Author notes
A mere rambling of thoughts ... and how the computer has made such a change to reading and writing.
A contest entry
- ~this space for rent, by nOva-.
800 points, ended October 24, 2008, 17 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please take time to share your comments ...
Comments
1 - 9 of 9
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Space, Time, and Thought
Forms of Matter convey (preserve) Thought through Time
Forms of Energy convey (preserve) Thought through Space
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Wow! i was so excited when i first read this entry - it's such a new, creative, original take on the prompt - that was what stuck out to me the most. Not to mention the fact that the spaces in your entry are something we can all relate to here on AP
. .special. Usually, an entry of this length would annoy me 
and others im sure - yet i never found myself dragging between the lines. The emotion you put into this was so real, so accessable. . .this was definitely a gold!
Sorry for the late comments!
~mewithoutYou -
To think.... half a lifetime ago this would have been unimaginable and yet you captured that timeless feeling of love that is the source, nay the essence of romantic poetry. Excellent work my dear. Good luck in the contest.
Sincerely,
Leo Long
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Space to rent...
Words well spent
Eloquent and true...you have extended your self very beautifully my friend
J
hn
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beautiful thoughts...
loved it! a true stream of consciousness, 'j' no preamble here; just co-joined thoughts piecing toegether a very deep and memorable style of writing I haven't seen from you before... TOP MARKS! worthy of gold in any one's language... write on, dear poet... 'd'(david)
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You've spoken of an interesting and evidently common new means of souls finding a home in the ether. I think cyberspace has allowed us a means to communicate in ways humans usually find difficult -- heart to heart. In this lifetime. I wouldn't change a thing.
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Where do I start? How do I walk through this potential minefield? And when I do, which path do I take? Lets take the one least likely to contain deadly schrapnel...
It's very intriguing...for a number of reasons. It speaks of you, of modern society, the love of language, the desire of love...to want to love. All parts for varying reasons I know something about.
I of course wonder of the nature (rhetorically) of this romantic flare. I know, of course, of your love of old writing, of good writing, and how it spurs your writing and imagination. So I think one of two things...this poem is quite literal, it's about an online relationship, I have first hand knowledge there too, I mean my own experience. But of course it could be more metaphorical and you're just expressing that feeling of reading words, modern words, living words...of a living person...possibly on AP, but not necessarily.
Ok, I will step outside the minefield. Any further is too nosy.
A very rich poem for those reasons and for the romantic flare that presents them. Love, in whatever form we choose to imagine it has a strength and verbiage of its own, and you've helped me see a glimpse of it, translated.
I've awakened mornings to read "midnight dreams" before, I may know your feeling of anticipation...but these days I now awaken to read the sports page. (I often wonder if anyone ever gets these silly things I write, lol)
I may no longer read (or write) "midnight dreams" but I still like reading how others see them.
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An excellent and articulate piece of writing, which I thoroughly enjoyed reading. Great work.
With admiration,
Bill
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Joy this new to me, yet I feel through your words I have travelled this same road...So very familiar it all seems...Excellent...mal
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