The beautiful thing about suicide…
Is that someone can think about it,
Can ponder it,
Can contemplate it;
It can be in their thoughts,
On their mind,
In their dreams;
An unwithering desire for death.
And, you wouldn't know,
You wouldn't have guessed,
You would have had no idea.
And, that…
Is the beautiful thing,
About suicide.
Categories:
unwithering, feelings, suicide,
Form: I do not know?
I remember pouring imagination into you
When as a child you sat awed for my stories
Today I read poems your heart brings to view
And hear the honesty only a child knows.
Woman, mother, wife ... the child has grown
Larva, chrysallis, moth ... the myth has flown.
You tell truth straight like arrow to the heart
I feel your words bleeding through my vein
Without crafty turns and dissimulations. Sharp
Knife cutting away compromise and conceit.
I know you where your feelings rise, smokeless
With panting predicates, painting plain pictures
I could not write, for you are much more fearless.
You drank mandro-bitta tea and licked your lips,
You stained desire with honey and fed drifters,
Your thoughts whisper to the edge of the sea
Licking the face of memory with pink evenings.
Do you not know white herons are not a cross?
That I love my hibiscus alone going red to gold?
You tell truth, because you see and look again
While I turn away to dream the deeper thing.
When the withered world is done we have you
The last loveliness, the dream unwithering,
Your imagination shimmering like a windy sea.
The last hibiscus on the stem belongs to me.
Categories:
unwithering, tribute, child, dream, child,
Form: Free verse
I marched, they marched, we marched
For nothing now it seemed
And I the ego pulpiteer, left parched
Refusing to go underground with the stream
That carried me before to a sheer
Desolate drop, I can struggle unless I fear.
So here in the monastry of altar and pew
I come again O God to you. Next
Time when the fire starts, remember few
Were called to drink gall and text
And I among them have lived pure to truth
Provide a ram for the obedience of youth.
We shall unclenching fist feed in fecund feast
Unwithering love to every poor
Spirited, staggering from kingdom to beast
Blind to thy Jerusalem's door.
I came because I believe, and tremble still
Slobbering at the invisible shadow of your will.
What else, each time timbre of trumpet tells here
And after wars dead flowers are left
What else could counter the clamour of despair
And bring me gloried on knees bereft
Brailing the gored gospel of its giddy solace
Pinnacled on the faith fluttering face to face.
Categories:
unwithering, introspectionme,
Form: Verse