Don’t mind; it was only a comment shared on another blog. This is the whole of it, with the poem I shared:
Is it all right if I share too much, having just listened to your wonderful singing readings, thinking of your travels—to Romania? They’ve been through so much, yet they’re undivided in their steadfast love of song.
I really wouldn’t trust myself to let in so much mystery without them:
7 June 2016
Paper Wasps: One Season
The walls are concrete-grey and high as all imagination—not
the real one, but the cast-out stranger’s far from ordinary thought
brought forward from a time of troubled partial peace, to where time roiled
all everyone within the mind they shared—the one that read the soiled
torn pages found beside the gutter, nearly washed away. Their lines
will celebrate the latent brilliant wick behind my eyes, designs
shot all throughout that might have once arisen in an early morn—
For this long moment, I’m so tired, I’d like to leave my soul lovelorn,
but your imagined smile in guided love’s triumphant posture—Leak
a little gentle light toward the one you hold, who’d never seek
the likes of you, but still knows how to shine forth grace as if no soul
had ever found another hiding place where god might eat you whole—
then turn again upon your heel and show the world how well you dance.
Beauty grows so luminous, I’d lie down, whetted by that lance;
I’d feel it draw a subtle bead, then sharpen both its well-trained eyes—
and tender as a subtle breath—I’d lie down dead if love would rise
from out my grave with blossoms rich as gushing blood, well mixed with white
wax candles’ flames as if their glow came over fresh as new Moon’s light,
and all they cast their inverse shadows, walls as black as stone light hates—
Use your silent, hurting heart to entertain the fallen slates
that held a roof above your head when you lay sleepness, praying hard
for one sweet angel out of many—How she saw you through, her starred
companion in the basement room so grey—and then so black, so still—
She’s a soothed and solid sense-companion where love works its will,
and when she’s woken finally toward the glowing evening pass
we both must understand before we enter—Love’s a stringent lass—
we’ll feel the bond that holds the hands between us so securely, we—
Used to be, we climbed the walls, right up and over; there’s a tree;
there’s the concrete far below, and up above, the heaven’s high.
Raise your fierce wet fist in mind against the fear that makes you cry:
Tell the little feeling hearer hidden well within your breast—
Paper wasps who build right now know theirs is next year’s empty nest.
Thank you, Scarriet, and happy trails!