Friday, October 7, 2022

Escaping Ourselves

 

Sleeping in scars, trombone fried, Netherlands is watery; greens and hogs, dreams and not knowing, the battle is overcoming self; violin trouble, dear pain trouble, too much to explain trouble. Each poem is not enough. Each person is a universe. Sworn to perform. Sworn to pass judgement.          Lakes are metaphors—some are under an edifice—some system, unique to humans.           Loving is difficult.          Retreating is confessing what we can’t hear.          So reciprocal the nights; too up to fly—too low to fathom defeat … pure contradiction … this is existence!          It was different; then we met … in all the frustration, I wonder: Why would you share that with me? So imperative, so much understanding, to give both the best and the worse of us.          I imagine, now with serenity, those taller trees—the fountain of the skies—those woes unchiseled, the future spoken in dreams, the ponds, the lagoons, those meadows with ferrets and birds and humility.         Can’t explain beyond the simplistic; and knowing that, you attacked. It was more for self. It had little to do with actions. Just annoyed—angered—needing a reason to live, in a reason to fight, with others knowing more of wilderness, those clouds, the bulwarks, those scars. Color hurt also. Such a broken vessel, claiming into another vessel; some improper potion, some great estuary, into a silliness taking precedence.      

Strumming a Harp

By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunde...