Blue-Hot

24 June 2014

Blue-Hot

Little blog, I’m trying. Encouraging news reached me today, from an old friend valued but not yet mentioned, and for that I’m going to get all brave and crazy and post this poem I finished about five seconds ago. It’s not about him or anyone I could name, really; they always turn out in the end to have an agenda of their own, but it is one always kind in nature. Thank the very source itself for that, for swiftness is how it comes through, in a place of flow where continued motion is all.

24 June 2014

20

Stranger, Welcome Home

There will have been the rain-swollen warm season, then there right after—low mists filled with cold.
Mine is the glorious gain of the message the magic of autumn will ply you with; fold
all our hand-lettered leaves in a pale vellum envelope, write very simply upon it again,
then lay it aside and call home the long wandering lover who’s fallen on fields of no rain,
but can’t weep enough for the courage it cost her to go there at all. And she did it; she did.
Now you will understand truly, forever, the reason she loved well, but loved and then hid.
In a particular arc of clear Moonlight, shadows are cast that come straight to the point.
When any number are marked as they come so together, we know it means love will annoint
its successor within the next moment—in fact, you’ve already felt at the back of your mind
who it is, and you, aye, you—you’ve always been prescient, and this time you’re right, and the stars have aligned
with the dimmest of senses we still retain use of, as littlest shining afar reaches eyes
that seek for it willingly, often, and hoping for even a glimpse of a truth beyond lies.
Night after night while the seasons wheel round, I lie down and wake up alone, though I sleep
with the strongest of far-sighted beautiful gods, the one who brings love-songs impossibly deep
from out of sea waters so crystalline, lenses they are, yet when he dives for magical air,
I write down what I cannot see as he sings me it, far far away, yet so forceful and fair.
We have worked long, long and hard, yet it all comes to nothing because we are weightless with change.
When we’re both dead, all our shifting of weight will change places. There—humans are real, and we’re strange.

 

 

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About J

Just poetry, in several forms.
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