Peter (my bf) flew away early this morning,
like Shakespear’s eagle, “leaving no tracks.”
Now I lay here, as a leftover or Millais’ drowned ‘Ophelia.’
That’s an image ripped from adolescent, female visual culture.
Time‘s adversarial magic drags us ever future-wise,
eroding sweet moments we would cling to.
Shall we poetize?
I want a quiet afternoon,
on the bright side of the moon.
It’s an actual-factual place,
convenient, in close outer space,
like mythical Elysium, Shangri-La or Valhalla
where I’d still be intertwined with my fella,
like characters from literature or legend.
A place where “I’ll get to it tomorrow,”
is, alas, an everlasting pass,
because on the dusty, unreeling moon,
tomorrow never arrives,
our lovers never have to go,
and we can relax, scantily clothed,
simply enjoying the everlasting earthrise.
.
.
Songs for this:
To The Moon by Meghan Trainor
Moon River by Frank Ocean
since writing is being,
who the hell am I,
measuring meter,
caring about perfect rhyme,
an attention seeker
trying to impress
writing is being
breathing
unreeling
unraveling
unearthing
seeing
hearing
smelling
touching
feeling
e.e.
("since feeling is first
he who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;") *
since writing is being
can I just
be
stop pretending
and wholly kiss
me
if I can't
how will I ever
wholly kiss you
* From "since feeling is first" by E.E. Cummings
Dem Tiff Our Pikin
Child Trafficking
Her echoing screams
pierced the night
unreeling an impending woe
rousing every slumbering soul
prompting a sudden madness
The other sits then strains
looking out with earnest yearnings
scarcely seeing the distance
streaming out the tears
remembering many sorrows
as she recounts her story
This one grows weary
as her mind wanders off
overly flustered
by the seemly misty dust
stirred by roaming feet
scantily clothed
barely holding on
bemused by this troubling reality
grasping weakly
to her unbroken will
The other held on to fate
even as she alter her faith
squatting with a furrowed face
staring blankly at the beaming sun
regurgitating their last words
visualizing her lost world
I see your bright colored plumes and your cocky arrogant beak
you think you got a trumpet in my ear but oh ,you wait and see
how beautiful the end result will be, once you CLAMP
It is no ones business but my own what I write and re-write in
the name of perfection. Cat got your tongue? Well finally we
got some peace round here, I'm entering IT
Are you expecting those old parrot tapes to enter my heaven?
I'm busy inputting so I I can't hear your hell
so fly away from me bird from Alcatraz cuz I'm not this, OR
That,
I will not listen anymore. REMOVE
that silly grin off your plucky face and give me room to be
the best that I can be. I'm unreeling, re-dealing, getting
ready for the authentic manuscript of the Century. So bird on
you.... Get over YOURSELF
You don't own monopoly to my mind nor my imagination
get going bird, I got it covered so pluck those poisoned feathers
off my back and let me grow wings, that won't harm or attack
leave me in peace to write .
January 14, 2019
Footprints
Written: by Tom Wright
3/8/2016
Like a colossal spool of twine unreeling,
So are the tracks put down from birth.
They show our bearing, not what we’re feeling,
And are oft used in determining our worth;
But only God knows what our heart’s hold,
And if our trail was by Him so directed;
Whether our tracks are fresh laid or cold,
Our love for others from these is reflected
Old songs
Rippling across the yard like common leaves
Stirs me
Like the wind stirs trees to drop gold memory
I wonder now
Where have you all gone, doing what
Is it not easy to remember again
Do you brush tears like I do a gnat
Remembering joy really cause pain.
Old songs
Let them, spinning through faults and scratch
Night longs
For stars like chicken in a country yard to hatch
Whatever happened to those hens I had
I think I know, O too bad, too bad. So bad
I was powerless against the broken heart
Nature flying, flying like clouds apart.
Old songs
Let them play, the real unreeling the mind
Old songs
Playing on the edge of memory deeply blind
Tells the recurring tale of Sisyphus labour
The filling and outpouring, the empty valour
The ever recurring loss, and the storing
The collections of our loss, and storing, storing
The mood, the visions, memory
The ghost and image of history.
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