She brings calm anxious aura
when
there is no reason, nothing more than a day
pushing
my pace frantic, rushing day to minute to second to…
Then arrives abrupt isolation, a silent
demand for focus
on
her, her moment.
She comes so foreground centers, background
blurs
to
no perspective no depth, and as I breathe
that
in which she moves, her peace takes me
from a world dissolving outside
of us.
Inside my head my mind my thoughts
race so,
so
that perhaps all else seems, is not, may not be frozen haze,
but
merely lost to the madman inside.
He runs to a thousand places in my
head,
keeps
her talking, smiling, keeps her there while
within
that eight cylinder fire-breathing dialogue rages.
“Why’d I say that and what do I say
next and shut up and listen and
God,
she’s listening to me. She is, she is,
AND SHE IS!!!”
She’s making me feel what’s been so
long and dead since,
since
that’s been there or anywhere.
And is it her? Or is it what? Or is it that she makes me feel
that
for which I have longed without knowing longing?
Can I, might I, do I love her for that
and nothing more than I feel again
uncomfortable
feeling uncertain, questioning myself,
why
is, why is not my
conversation comfortable cohesive coherent?
Why think these things, ride this
storm
while she
simply smiles?
your poetry tingles my imagination and i believe that is the essence of good poetry. You've done it again, it was worth it coming back to check your new post. Sir how long have you been writing poetry please.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much for the kind words. I appreciate them very much. I've been writing this kind of thing for about 20 years. It helps me cope. I'm so glad that you like it and thanks again.
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