The shooting star
aurora vim of me
dimmed and weighed down
by buildings made
in the three score
and seven year grasp
of the normal.

Persistent chains hang
on the mind
yet from the smothering hold
I try to fly
on butterfly wings.

I lift off.
My spirit light
alive with imagination
a hawk gliding carefree
on midday thermals
its silent rhythm urging
the rusty-chained-me
to rise up
like pollen in the wind.

Is this an illusion?
If that winged force
is really there
is it not joinable
embraceable at any moment?

All I need is to believe
in its ethereal grace
and power
reach the tendril of my consciousness
down through the peopled legions
down through the past
attached to me
gigantic brown leaches.

If that perky tendril makes it
lush and bursting forth
a pink-flowered tree
like crape myrtle
glorious in early summer
defying the heat
belting its aria
to the neighbors.

Even now the structures
of the past tell me
this poem cannot be cast
and will catch no wind
in its formless void.

But here it is.
May it take flight
like dandelion particles
impulse swagger
cheeky bold
upon the day.

06/26/2009

Author's Note: As I get older, I fear the increasing angle of decline in creativity and originality. Reading others' poems here has challenged and encouraged me to try to decrease that angle just a bit.

Posted on 06/26/2009
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