You offered me a kingdom,
I traveled no further than a
garden I was given to till and
attend; was that first fruit of
your blessed soil, or were my
blossoms on the wrong end?
That apple I bit into, far from
the mansion on the hill, they
were my eyes, my hands that
held the fruit, it was entirely
my will.
That apple so firm and round...
the flesh, so red, the juice so sweet:
coils of ever greater desire wound
round my hands and feet – I have
revisited those circles, taut springs
and gears of hissing, squeaking time.
Like the burgundy of the grape, the press
of the vine, now there were seasons,
light and dark from which to harvest,
absent the hearts, my cultivations
of outer-rind. What is our Sign?
Born in the beginning...searching
an infinite Universe...all lost and
all mine.
Poetry often starts outside
of one's self – on a distant hill or near
greenhouse shelf; our-cultivations
as the consideration of a grafted rose
goes; the meandering, dripping of a stream
or nose; submerging of our toes in
chilling clarity – we see to the bottom,
sometimes fooled by depth –
or that of a winged flight, wingtips tossing
sparks of light, dipping and scooping
winged ladles of air, unseen but yet
we see them there, pouring out there,
back into our fanciful sky, our fanciful
eye -- in a heart's invested sigh -- up
high in the atmosphere, sighted unseen
spirit -- looking and listening for the echo
of angels -- turning us more inward, where
deeper observation and motion begins,
the pen is lifted, and the paper stained
finally, fondly into lyrical submission –
Where I once lived natural and free on and island boarded by an azure sea. I found myself now living in what is called euphemistically a 55 plus community.
Here the people from more northern locations share the same cultivations.
On my arrival I was greeted with an element of disdain and handed a three hundred page booklet embezzled with my name.
The booklet was the bible of the home owners association. Follow each rule and there should be no chance of an altercation.
I tried to blend in but as hard as I tried I could not put my old ways aside.
So here I be listening to mindless cacophony lost in thought of how life use to be.