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.

 

10 thoughts on “

  1. 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

  2. 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…

      🙂

  3. Pingback: sitting, two years later, | the tenth muse

Thoughts?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s