Monday, September 1, 2008

A Poet.

A rather poetic
looking poet
stands beneath a tree
on a winter day
and I stop and listen to him
as he recites his work.

His poetic jeans are rusted
grey from black
thoughts which he has held
since childhood
pulled high under
his jumper's
afraid weave
not hung
on every one
of his poetic words.

He says -

"I am
standing on the side
of the stream
conscious of the cold
change.

"I can see the rocks
in the water
that split
the currents
and retard the flow.

"I can hear
the voices
that rush from
the white peaks
and bubble
trouble
in wild waves and whispers
of what lies further
downstream.

"I can feel green
in the air
dark
with worried leaves
that leap from their elegant homes
sailing
a slow pendulum
in a sorrowful sigh.

"I can taste the sour
memories and bitter doubts
and Heaven knows
I try
to spit the seeds
that feed
the delicate insecure skin.

"But the birds sing here
in my would eye
my good eye
so
shall I
just jump in
and let the water
take me away?"

"Will I float
upon this reflection
of my self?"

The poet asks
above
and turns his face
to the sky
which cries
and I wonder
as I run to
shelter
if the rain
was the answer
he was looking for
or the push that he needed
to stop looking to the Heavens
for an answer that lies somewhere
here on Earth.

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