On Writing Poems
There are those who say
writing poems is close to God.
Others say it is a political act.
If that were the case
where would I wander
with my drink crazed words
when all I see
is how perfect creation is in
both perfection and non-perfection.
That reminds me of Torcello
seven miles north of Venice
where banks of sand rise and
knit into a vast salty morass
caressed by the green sparkling sea
and sunbunt weeds are whitened with webs of fungus.
My pen
writing poems late at night
Vangellis playing
Rain on my window and
one room holds my rambling memories
Whoosing
me across tall mountains
to a nomadic land
where to breathe becomes a low sigh
of a lost dream
shifting from my sight.
Oh my body sleep.
Sleep my family, my ancestors
in distant snow or fragrant roses
and honeysuckled embrace
beneath a moon cocooned for days dawn
where wind scatters and
the wind saves.
And let us dream
of a land where all is milk and cream.
All this poetry scares me.
Poets reading out loud and
me next
nerves on end, but
I thought of you
and of Torcello
and the campagna of Rome where
your brown lashes fluttered
to reveal
only you
in a dawn kissed olive grove,
the hills behind, guilded with silver
like an old lady's hair.
Free Forum Hosting
Important Announcement
First 