last piece of redo for now

Could spend more quality
time under them,
around
them, listen, learn, soak,

absorb. Let a stampede do
what a stampede does.

A forest will bury

all those granules,
eventually, except
eternally
they are not useless;
thread, melt, seep;

soils eat,
and they lay
and spread

and then, asterisks,

filaments that are vestigial,
sinewy,
stringy, are in
the spindle states:
those

are the ones rich
in tree life
and drop red seeds
and fruits of meat
by the mossy

bank that melts into the sandy
waterfowl resort

midway and dating stations,
and rich
in the true

life, as one heron darts
to
duck under the willow
overhang that is only a flimsy

front to a gambling den.
Darker
than the shore.
Louder than

the river. Softer
than the nagging
back at the nest.

They serve cocktails.

They do not judge
or insist the eye blur
focus
from the velvet
and do not mind
a murky
or muddy stare.

They’re trained in fantasy.
Understand escape.

Provide. Providers.

Sure for a fee
and sure for no
unlimited duration.
But what is

unlimited?
The real recognizes
no boundaries.

Overflow
and overlap
and overhang;

seepage and spillage and fuzz

and blur.
Definitions are fictional.
Why else are decorations

craved? So everyone
and everything lives

in fiction. Rigidity
is
the most onerous
phantasm;
the concrete
using the major space.

Uses without moving.
Waits and draws

as it waits. Is still.
Like all the verticals

when the people sleep;
they cease their sways.
They stiffen then go limply
still, go to sleep.
Nods finally
get a word in.
An island
is recognized, not only by shape,

but by name, the real name,
not the name
a supposed atlas
claims,
that just passes

along what comes along;
so the island
really appreciates an entity
knowing its name

and intentions are
not malicious,

because visitors

often do abuse
the vegetation, leave
sticky candy

wrapper or warm,
bespittled beer can

where the lover
of serenity
least needs

to know at the moment
the need was in
the most swollen state,
like beneath shady bough
of a leafy poplar

and lips must touch
beery
spittle, cannot enthuse
the serenity
seeker and lover,
since serenity relies

on tone or rhythm,
or tonal rhythm
that cannot

be blithely named, and is
vulnerable

to alien invasion,

the alien a testament scrap
or a scrap
that tangibly
testifies; imbalanced
textures

collide and synthesis
is
patent
impossibility;
serenity
needs to bathe

in all that is possible
as long as possible.

Advertisements

About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in free verse, poem, poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s