This can go somewhere, once I piece it all together and apply some glue. It might seem odd to post something so obviously unfinished, but somehow that felt like...part of what it is. I mean to work on it, though.
Not of pristine ivory, coldly sensual, massaged into being with care by worshipful hands,
Somber leaden sky compresses my budding spring enthusiasm into a flat shapeless unrecognizable thing. That Ohio Valley sunshine— brief reprieve, or respite, always tantalizes with the promise of more, then follows through as poorly as an eager fickle lover I am ever credulous and ever disappointed
dancing, swaying, tipsy together across this creaky floor,
and you, whispering tasty lies, nibbling my ear,
tellling me all those things every wide-eyed girl
in her best blue dress yearns to hear.
Should I be astonished, or pleased, or just “well, of course,” about having written the same thing, essentially, twenty years apart, one from the point of view of a young woman, the other (directly below this post, click the arrow on the bottom left) an external view of someone clearly much older? Yeah, I’m all the ages I’ve ever been, still here, still me, so all of the above, I guess.
What I’m wrestling with, though, is the writing of two people each waltzing to the music that floats up from below, but they are on opposite sides of the wall. I can see the whole thing pretty well, but the telling of it might require a gift I have not received. Still, I persist for now. And while I continue to mull it over, I’m going to work on a new sonnet.
Writing a decent or at least readable poem is, for me, both done in an instant, and rarely ever finished. I like sharing my thought process, and I hope someone out in the ether enjoys seeing early formations and later iterations created slowly outside of any useful timeframe. Epochs undefined.
And I get out of practice.
But as to topic, all I can do for now is mirror the kind of visualizations which came to mind so many years ago, so many miles ago, when I was relatively young and full of spirit, and hope they foster new ones, as well. Let’s start with an easy metaphor.
seeking nothing more than a formless connection
a quiet ethereal [sort of give and take,]
they begin a slow tentative waltz
dancing to the strains of music playing on the distant side
of these old plaster walls…
The words in brackets are written as I hear them, but are too lazy, and I'll probably change that whole line.
Now is now, In luxury, taking deep breaths Learning to breathe deeply all over again at least for today today is today tomorrow’s wheezing just a concept like tomorrow’s lunch and dinner yesterday’s forgotten nature it’s all one and the same—
Wu wei, sprezzatura, chickadees, chicken breasts a tree with a bent trunk that still reaches for the sky
—and all this, this drama, confusion, chaos, greedily or angrily or desperately drinking in of lies drowning in a shallow pool of incalculable demand… this, too, shall pass.
Today I learned of the death two years ago of someone I once knew, barely and briefly. I can see her face, almost, skimming over the surface of a previous decade I remember her glasses and her long hair and looking down at her as she spoke with quiet nervous energy; hardened with confidence worn out not yet worn away
I know she loved her girls, but I remember little else.
Autumn arrived this morning on a crisp steady wind. Birds crowd the feeders with messy greedy fervor, leaves drift from trees to form a light blanket over the tangled grass, sorely in need of a final trim before winter rest.
This afternoon’s rain will bite rather than soothe.
Cloak loosely knit, leaves safeguard Summer's solace sharply angled sun's warmth rendered frail Laid to bare, her Eden stripped and cheerless Harsh mirror reflects cracks beneath the veil Stiff from chilled air hands craft ersatz beauty awkward schemes to echo artless youth
In wintertime her grace is draped in duty Allure on ice, charm banked low in half-truth (betimes ablaze thanks to gin and vermouth)
Through long dark nights her restless mind composes vernal gardens flowering in romance While winter-weary silver form reposes Subconscious spark ignites a fervid dance
Though woman's bloom in softness fades away, her Eden blooms in richness from decay