Next to Promised

13 October 2015

13

Our Next-to-Promised Land

Little fingers gripped my hand so tightly all last night, they left
a set of tiny, bleeding-under-skin remarks. We’re born bereft
of why we ever want to wake up here and see this small world through—
till when another set of eyes flies open and they sight love’s You.

Woken on the 13th of the month as god’s new no Moon shone,
set at once to gathering weeds where long wet sweeping skirts are thrown
across the high green fields of weaving stalks and trailing leaves as we
go dancing out before the morning lark and swallow—Woe is me,

for in the sad wet underbreath that used to make a song of pain,
I can still lift up my eyes and dream of blissful, nightlong rain,
ocean waves off tides so high, the satellite that drew them here
recalls to me the ghostly, long wet soul that gave sad way to fear—

and tenders through the slightest crack that lets the light sift in and glow
the miracles of risen magic shadows into newborn woe,
then waits, as patient as a saint, for hints and glimpses, signs and sighs.
Little fingers, please let go for just a moment. Let’s lock eyes

where—gleaming for a bare, strange instant—someone very lunar waits.
Let’s us walk, hand held in hand, toward the source of several fates,
knowing as we sway toward the final meeting-place—he’s kind.
If your undertaking makes me bleed, we’re on our way to find

the healing touch that shivers through the lifted flesh that sad touch needs
to understand the leaning want the love inside deep music feeds.
Maybe, when next dawn appears as breath that lingers long on glass,
little stains of blood will trail away as lives and journeys pass

before the ancient staring source of vision in our dreams as were.
Hand in hand, we moan out in our sleep, then words become a blur;
reading turns to singing, and sheer clarity shines dawn so true,
we’ve another million pairs of eyes within that love me you.

Love a million Moons from now, and all of them the wisest souls—
only let them love you back as you keep calling, calling. Roles
are changing, child; they always have; a new sweet hand inscribed you this.
Far too early, eyes flew open—dancing—skirts—old fields of bliss

remembered past the luring threshold subtle winding thoughts kept sealed
until the very moment we—cannot betray what we’ve concealed.
I shall never cease to sing and pray and dance and hold your hand,
but till you’ve woken faithfully, and finally—no promised land.

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About J

Just poetry, in several forms.
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