a cold trickle emerged, cleansed
by layers of dirt
Slither of sapwood
silk string wrenches nock to nock
breath waits while head wanders
tumbled: 'No permit, no work.'
He burned in the street.
Vernal equinox
crocuses in purple pools
that warm day in March
the air. Move your hand forward.
Slowly. Close enough.
5 comments:
I remember that one Vicky. The warm day in March.
Lovely post. Sets me thinking about new beginnings and emergence from darkness.
What impresses me is how my "inner ear" can hear you reading these aloud to yourself as you were composing, just as his daughter tells us Dylan Thomas used to "in the woodshed" where so often he wrote.
I'm surprised so often at Open Mic sessions that those delivering their poems clearly have no idea as to how the poem SOUNDS to the audience, whereas the sibilance especially of yours mimic water's trickle and Spring's eruption into light.
I like very much - thanks, Vicky.
Me too Adele :-)
Christo, thank you. I don't know another way to write. It's all about how it feels on the tongue. I said that to a high school class and they found it hilarious.
http://poems.com/poem.php?date=16148
Hope you will find that this has similar qualities.
And teenagers have universally mucky minds - "on the tongue" will have had different connotations for them.
I do love a conversational poem. Thanks for the link.
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