What delight I found in Baring something I had done to her And reading in reply that She felt just as seen as I felt myself to be Just then !
An image after my own heart… Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Who could fail to find pleasure in Writing words such as Provoke such words in return Or Better yet To take away the words that would form Leaving speechless panting in their wake?
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The urge swells in me More potent now than Even the most turgid adolescent lust Memories of which continue to haunt Taunting recollections of the kind of fool I was As opposed to the kind of fool I am And I would put my hand to its ease As I am not alone in having done And to distraction on more occasions than is Comfortable to recount But there is all to little there to grab And my fingers feel too empty when they close Wrist feeling no resistance as the arm jerks Again and again and again Leaving nothing leaking out
In case I wasn’t clear… Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
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To hammer out some rhythm on the keys And hope the lines flow well together Harmonizing without attention despite intent
Not among my instruments. Photo by Mu00e9line Waxx on Pexels.com
Something given as a task to children Surely cannot be so much of a challenge to begin And it might be thought of little value for that
And yet there are those who will spend their lives Or many hours of many days among them Poring over the keys to find each sound within them Never exhausting them all
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The story is that A shining city on the hill Was raised to serve as a Beacon for the world Lighting the way to Liberty and justice for all And though the ideal was not achieved For many or for long If for any or at all It was yet held up and out as The ideal The goal toward which all ought to strive And no few did more than make a show in that effort
Something of the sort? Photo by Matheus Bertelli on Pexels.com
The story is seldom told anymore Striving seen as to no good end And those who boasted they ought to be better Have let themselves lapse into silence Screaming until throats were bloodied Availing nothing against the cacophonous din Lost amid more dissonance than An augmented fourth or minor second will sound And I do not know if it is a relief that The pretense has gone away or A sullen, sodden shame that The light has been let dim and die out at last
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One thing done and Just enough time to Take a breath before The next thing has to Begin and I find myself pecking away at the keys again Though I have never been able to play piano well And there is no reed to which to put my lips and tongue today
Tis the season… Photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich on Pexels.com
Still There is music in it A strain and refrain and another melodic line Carrying through the lot as I Hammer out some idle percussion for a few bars Until another audience arrives that Paid for a different show entirely
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It is the truth that some few years have passed Since of this observation I wrote last And marked how lines bespoke such showers sweet As rise in spring. I then still thought it meet That I should speak as with authority And not as penitent, making a plea. Now, though the Ram is not quite halfway through The course it runs, and it is not as true That people long to go on pilgrimages As they once were, the season still engages Thoughts of reverdie as flowers bloom Brighter far than any painted room And many mount on wheels to pass them by And marvel at the ground-held sunset sky.
Something like that, yeah. Photo by Mike Bird on Pexels.com
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The words of wonder that wind through ages Scribed into stone and standing on leaves that Fell from no tree–no great feat, that– March in their masses as must well be done While I, not worthy, watch them pass by Saluting those soldiers, sentinels of lore, Yearning for years to yoke myself to them.
They walk through the world, while I Remain here, rooted. They rove And carry their contents, commanding attention, Gift I, too, gave them, and gladly I did, Hurt that they heeded no hope that I held. They pass on, proceeding, a parade through ages, Trudging through ticker-tape, teasing the mind With wonder of what might have been, were things otherwise.
No axle-span asks me what I would offer, Bespeaks its forbearance, bids me be patient In dreams in the darkness, when my lights are dimmed. No gold or gemstones glitter before me In inward eye-work, no eager wood Speaks of its strength and surrender to will Of the fruit that it, fertile, felt compelled to avenge. No such man am I to have such a vision And the words of wonder that persist in the world, Beauty in bard-craft, betray all the changes From their time to this, as might well be thought.
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He would often sing of a man from Abas Whose nethers were somehow constructed from glass And those gathered ’round would give him a pass Though that little song was well without class
Something of a source, perhaps? Photo by Liudmyla Shalimova on Pexels.com
But I am no better who have my own song That I bellow out, all day and night long And in all that lowing hope I appear strong Though I do but writhe upon fear’s fork’s prong
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Elliott RWI 