Intergeeseruption
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I am, somewhat surprisingly (to me, anyway) beginning a series of poetry-written-when-I-hear-the-geese-throughout-my-day.
The geese.
Again.
Interrupt my day;
which had been
-Interrupted
(All day.)
by my wand’ring mind.
It hithers and thithers.
As the boyish body
ages, the brain withers.
Each day a protest;
silent but for the creaks and groans
(some audible),
against the Grand Dissolution
when my organized bits
are no longer suspended in
solution
and I settle out of the mix
and all is clear once more.
My pigments, my dyes
have their peace of rest:
have their piece of rest -
have their peace in rest -
have the rest of peace -
have their rest in peace -
My wishes, my tries,
Upon the canvas, the clay, the stitchery of
Life, upon my fingers uncleaned -
Everything dies...such is the witchery of
Life.
Where was I?
Oh, yes.
The geese.
Again.
I name this unseen one,
overloft at end of day,
Clarion.
These pages say that a clarion
is a call to action.
I’ve had my part, I’ve had my day.
Action has had its traction, in its day.
Not today. This, no overreaction,
I am over reaction. This be my response,
instead.
I take this goose to be a call.
To inaction.
No, not inaction.
To rest.
To the
Presence.
Before the
Absence.
Copyright © Stephe Watson | Year Posted 2018
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