Notes About The Poem
A substantive edit of a previous write. Seems more relevant given my present situation.
Still Standing
i wait at the river for the cry of the loon
from below
in the muck
reeds
grow tall
there are no lips that will draw music
from these clarinet dwellers
the moon above is glued in place nailed in to its spot
holding on to a piece of the bedtime sky
a hand descends from above
cuts the trapped moon down to a sliver
leaving the twilight mostly blind
the little dipper reminds me of a rocking chair
my favourite star shines just a little dimmer
i'm getting old
time passes
does so
uninvited
quiet is my flow of sand
stressed beyond reason
my emotions are stretched passed their limit
the choice
has always been mine
i have not lived the life i was gifted
wide awake in the after dark
with all the usual players
the wolf with his cool stance
dressed in a zoot suit
snapping his beatnik fingers
wooing the maiden night
the lynx with a fluid stride plays
the ground like bongo drums
negotiates the air like brushes on snares
there is a chasm of nurtured colours
engulfing me in its rich deep tones
having stood here longer then i know
i inhale my time in tiny puffs
i am void of the sanity i once possessed
i happily dismissed that blurry concept a long time ago
i live every moment as fully as my strength allows
all the living at the river and its surrounding land
add their breath to the natural air of the eventide
i breathe in the chill of the nightfall air
and i
i wait at the river for the cry of the loon
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