Visions of Yester-Year

Photo by: Sean McCormick.

 

We laid the foundation of our hearts

And spread beneath an open sky

Where neither walls nor whims

Knew limitation to licentious surrealism;

The clouds, like little rabbits framed

Running through the soul,

Stood as libation

In silent spring.

 

Weeds rack the roots,

No resurgence in the recalcitrant puberty,

Midst rustled horses and wrangled roses,

What saw us raise our heads to dream;

The foundation remains, regal rock

Walking beneath the sunlight

Where crumbled walls cracked

To visions of yester-year.

* My submission to part two of a special edition the One Shoot Sunday Photo Prompt, with that breathtaking frame shot provided by one Sean McCormick, a Canadian Photographer that is the focus of my latest interviews for One Stop. Great guy, with some truly stunning nature photography…it absolutely breathes with life, history, and all the shadows of memories gone before. Have a look when you get the chance, and check out all the other poets inspired by the prompt!

East meet West

Photo by Danielle Kelly, "Coney Island Mermaid Parade"

Veiled visions copulate

Between realities of bodies

Grinding against the backdrop

Eternity laid bare before the gown,

East meet West under the shade

Of world watching, still unseen

Mulling mass forget: I am.

* A response to the photo prompt from One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry and the talented Danielle Kelly, a New York photographer I recently interviewed. For the interview, the prompt and a whole mess of lovely photography and poetic replies, give One Stop a look!

A father’s love

Staring out the window

the old man sees the picture:

laughter and smiles, these bodies still they

tackle and break and the ball

it floats between, less a joy than a symbol

of a father’s love–

he young, to full of life and love

for dearest son–

he still the younger, laughing, adoration still

he sees this game, a day, a week

and weeps upon the broken knees,

this weary flesh–oh time, time

has rotted;

there is no game for he, this is

Life, life he shall not have, nor give,

but still he looks to the growing faces

of the life beside,

and to this image can but smile–

in that child’s eyes

a word, a look are all he needs

to know the love, the deed–

he cannot do, but love can show

in other ways–

sometimes he just needs the reminder.

Oh these regrets, such bitter things–

thank God, thank God, that child

still smiles at me.

My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! Once you’ve had a look, check out some of the other One Shot Poets as well– they’re a skilled bunch of poets, looking to form a community and support one another.  Enjoy!

Creation and Destruction

She smiled at Nothing

as Music stirred Creation;

Nothing smiled back

as Destruction stalked her wake;

Love stirred in the space between

their sinuous dance.

* To hear it: Creation and Destruction, by Chris Galford

Birthday Thoughts

“The great challenge of adulthood is holding on to your idealism after you lose your innocence.” ~Bruce Springsteen

Well, well, the day has come. According to society, I’m a man now.

Twenty one years have come and gone, and while I’ve been able to go off and die now for the past three years, I am now apparently old enough to legally have at the alcohol. Michigan, true to form, however, seems to have little interest in embracing summer just for such a silly little occasion, though. Clouds encompass everything in swirls of gray and black, threatening rain without ever working up the energy to do so. Lovely–I just hope it’s not a sign of things to come.

Regardless, I take this to be a time of reflection. Nearly a quarter of a century has come and gone–and the real world looms so near. College is nearly at its end, and I suppose I’m to be all grown up now. Will I be ready when the time comes?

I suppose many people ask themselves the same question. I wonder how many have the answer.

Nothing is as it seems

I woke up early this morning and literally rolled out of bed with this one on my mind. If it was related to dreams I had last night, then it’s probably a good thing I don’t remember them. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy:

Nothing is as it seems—

The old die old,

The young die young,

One perpetuates the other

In waves of maddening

Disillusion not withstanding—

We are players and audience

The stage ours to watch

And ours to play.

But where is the director?

The play plays on in

Such maddening discourses,

There is a plot twist somewhere—

Is this how it was written?

Read somewhere that parents should

They should never have to bury their children,

But the children fight their wars

And the children fight each other

And the old have lived it all.

The mind reflects in odd ways—

Always they remember the old days as better

Days, but they are gone.

Where is the proof?

The mind is fickle, it remembers

What it wants to remember

So the monologue seems better—

There is no difference.

The old are tired.

All they want to do is to lie down,

But they are watching and waiting—

Am I to die?—

But the young are restless

And in their roaming the world

Every moment and monument is theirs—

But they hasten to sleep

And they do not arise,

And the old weep and laugh in terror.