poesy. possibly.: March 2003 Archives

�
while california
burns, i hesitate
considering the place where
the air ends & this
deadness begins
�
empty words & isolation,
resonant & absolute & whatever
truth remains exists within
the illusion known as
memory
�
& eventually, we all
believe
�
today, i place my faith
in fire & fear the freedom
offered: martyrdom
at best & no less than
absolution by accident,
tragic but suffering
no further disgrace
�
�
meditations on image or
identity, superimposed on a
field of flame:
  reckless idealist?
  cowering idiot?
  method actress?
  willing victim?
�
yes! all at once honest
as i regress
�
consider this place
where the air
ends & one breathless
last chance
begins
�
�

-(me)
24 DEC 99

so i read scott facing thirty seven, and it brought memories of me, just after forty, with a similar sense of loss. except mine thought it was a poem.

today jilly's post about love and romance and weddings got me to reminiscing - i used to be such a romantic. i even wrote love poems and shit. one follows, i called it 'the rantings of a fanatic' but i no longer like the title.

surreality spent at
the outset &
replenished at the expense
of the evening

dark &
relentless
& the moon in
half-phase
faces down
the dawn
& with no intention
of surrender, retreats
in the rising light

& by & by my
nights & days are
depleted & an almost
imperceptible metamorphosis
occurs, an accumulation
of the effects of
time & exposure
to the elements:
erosion &
other losses,
loose ends,
ex-best friends
& everything

& the weather
grows wilder
every year
as storms rage, refuge
& redemption are offered
in the form of
precautions & prohibitions
an invitation into
the illusion of
safety & warmth

i decline
politely
& continue
to decline while
i run in
the rain
& whirl with
the wind
& dance through
the deluge

i am inspired
by lightning
& fire &
i am more than
alive & the sky
is savage with song

& unless this cataclysm claims me
& it won't, or it would have

already, & this is me
as it seems i am
best & perhaps
meant to be,

thriving in the
aftermath amidst the
damage & tragedy,
energized & again
reborn

-(me)
25 JAN 95

�1�

trying on
the colors of night
they fall loosely about my soul
defining its shape
only slightly & not
touching the earth
but brushing the dust stirred up
by my feet
as i run.

�2�
i seek peace along
a well-worn trail, long forgotten &
dimmed by years;
one full day's walk
from reality, i lie back
watching

�3�
the grass sweeps
forth & back
across the sky
as the wind hushes through,
whispering of wisdom lost;
suddenly
a fleeting light
catches on some hard, clear idea
& glitters back, rhyming
with a shadow in my mind

�4�
i dream my life backward
& watch it in the mirror:
the angle of the reflection
is equal to living
twice,
halfway;
the purpose of this being
to never ever finish

�5�
the phobia:
fear of endings
which bring forth
beginning, building on
upward, the fear
of heights;

there is
much shelter
in the incomplete life...

�6�
as it is, i am afraid
to finish this poem