Was hoping for a summer without the numbness of rain
Shouting at us, but all we’ve had is water uproar, blunting
The commercial and the personal.
Old clouds congregating; returned to the burned sky to
Soothe the raw sun in their cocoon; soft cotton mouthing the
Scale of their castle walls.
Vision is missing; statements have been made but nobody
Has said anything, and all the fixed laws of probability tip and
Ruin any unions formed.
Make an image sigh or a moment hold its breath, either’s
Delightful, as black and white viewing is strafed by golden
Bullets spat out from above.
Tied and drying, and the wherewithal for it smiles in
Accordance, as upraised faces pray; how sweet to smell
Perennially relevant yet still different.
And with fleeces shed we skipped into magnetic fields,
To reconnect our needs, as a trickle down slope capped his
Shoulders summit, less effective when shunned.
And sleep interrupted others, woke by the broken record
Of an angel’s need, and when his sapphire eyes open wider
Than the sky there will be no hiding place.
Whether it’s expected or not, shortened or protracted, love
Flatters, and no matter how wet, you won’t get wetter, though
You’re never dry enough.
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This poem sticks in my mind because of its Whitmanesque long lines, and the clarity of the images - the gathering clouds, the storm itself - wonderful, unexpected images that are like gems unearthed from clay.
ReplyDeleteOld clouds congregating - excellent. Burned sky, cocoon. And with fleeces shed we skipped into magnetic fields - really like this line also. Hmmm, love makes you wet though you're never dry enough. Sounds like a catch 22. I like the make an image sigh or a moment hold its breath/black & white strafed by golden bullets spat out from above - excellent. Broken record of an angels need - don't quite get it but I like this line nonetheless
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