Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Imagination.

It's all about God (the roving bandit she is)
playing with all the missing pieces, stealing all the
best lines never written
and blowing scene after scene with a wintery breath
the first night of her refusal in her deep purple phase,
the moonglow her pale-skinned backdrop.

Who then fills in sepia gaps
with down-to-earth native poems? Let's not
tarry about our business or
make snap judgments because, if I remember
correctly, life turns itself on a dime and nothing
is ever quite the same, though the sameness feels
much like an archaic boredom of the disinherited,
disaffected and the diminished parts of me
walking the spirit realm with vacant untoward eyes.

There's no chasm between my imagination and what is
that isn't held in some far-flung thought--
thrown about in torments of decision. I come down
from your ivory tower and my burning mountain on foot,
well traveled, nevertheless.

When the grapes of wrath blossom even stranger fruit than I
can recall and then withers away on some other acre,
I am filled with the
scent of wild strawberries and imagine I am
unfinished.

Like a drab little sparrow, falling from his chosen perch and frozen to your
touch, my Love,
only the song remains, tethered to sky
like drops of a lullaby.

She's spoken through the prophets we believe
and, orthodox, continues still to bless
and speak and stir wherever they'd confess—
those elements of universe that weave
together life and all its siblings: Eve
and Adam, rock and windstorm, no and yes—
that she is not a spirit to suppress
but celebrate for all she might conceive,
for all her shadows shade as possible,
for all she whispers privately, for all.
The canon of her verses doesn't fall
away by ink upon the passible
enscriptions of a page; her words but call
unendingly and share and shape and shawl.

Well scribed poem.

O my goodness, Joel!

Thanks for reading, Terry.

I really appreciate the expertise and ease of poetry posted to Studio Eight.

Thank you all.

~A