Sitting
close-legged in the James Center Starbucks i
channel my inner alchemist writing
molecules into dreams
and posing painfully
as another drip in the puddle
of humankind, my best sad delusions
melting into visible air breathed
over a single blade of grass
crowned with a frozen halo,
a
yearning or a universe trapped
there in the mud beside a stream
that flows where herons stalk
lost summer and only the
indigent and the inspired
tread the river-paths. The truth is i
love this place not two skips
from hell’s half-acre but
sometimes, lost in the ebb and curve
between railroad tracks and
monogrammed yesterdays i
wonder if the whisper
of the Devil can still be heard
above the hum of the wi-fi;
if those who sojourn in the
Burnt District of this
numbed century still
feel its scars and its sunderings
although
some things it seems haven’t
changed at all: men
are still shaped
by the subjects they should have learned
in grammar school and poets
still prefer windows and the
real truth of it is, i guess,
that here where the trains slow
and the James flows on uncomplaining,
herons have always stalked
lost summers, and ice,
like mankind’s worst
delusions, will always
melt
one sad drop
at a time.
the tenth muse 
I enjoyed reading it! “lost in the ebb and curve
between railroad tracks and
monogrammed yesterdays” is my favorite part.
Just amazing what sitting at Starbucks can inspire about 21st century life…
Have no words to say how much I loved this and your poetry in general!
Thanks for your comment in my blog
Dulce
i love how, in conclusion, you return to objects/subjects from the opening and wrap it all up with ‘the real truth is’, just as we’ve completely run out of breath – as an able alchemist / poetess will do.
yes, someone has to prefer windows, i wholeheartedly agree;
and also to ask why puddles prefer to reflect certain scenes after the rain stops; what it feels like to be securely interlocking cobblestones, several hundred years old – worn smooth and gray by countless footsteps, slips and slides and feet, too old or too young, shuffling; look at clouds as tough they are faces going through mood-swings and faces as though they are clouds whether in fall or spring projecting what’s within them at that moment as surreal yet fleeting shapes; what color a certain song begins with and why should emotion and color have anything to do with one another; imagine incidental friendships evolve roots and flower, otherwise wither if not tended, as roses bush might, when being hybridized; how certain feelings and memories can never be put into words and conversely why a single phrase, sometimes captures the imagination of a whole generation, even though it’s so simple; how time can be linear but oft times feel circular.
surely someone is charged to do these sort of things as their primary role … no?
ok, i vote that you do … *sly smile*
noxy
noxy, thanks for the vote, although you’ve described quite a responsibility there (beautifully, i might add.) if i should need a deputy, tho, i’m definitely gonna look first in your direction 😉
and i’m not sure poets could even exist without windows, you know? something to see the world from…
🙂
Eddie, always happy to have your comments; I’m glad you enjoyed it!
dulce, it is, isn’t it? thanks so much for your sweet words 🙂
You caught me with the first line.
There is something very free flowing about this poem.
Amazing what a simple coffee can inspire.
indeed. 😉
Pingback: sitting, two years later, | the tenth muse
This is overflowing with good ideas… I think two years helped to clarify your vision. 🙂
oh, you followed the link! that makes my day, Mosk. 🙂