by June Labyzon
that I look at things closely.
Though it reflects none of my poetry.
I must enter a place fully to describe it.
Discomfort is a perfect place to start.
Constructing the deep violet material
shading the borders with blue.
Yet, no need to make a big
dramatic production of it.
Walking along the levee to write poems,
trying to become sane with the stanzas,
I am puzzled.
I stop to sit cross-legged in a spot of grass
shaped like a quarter moon
on the edge of the water,
I write for myself first,
hoarding the answers.
I used to circumvent the poetry of others,
named it an avoidance of being alone.
I no longer need to.
Now I eat it by the gallon with the
most enormous ice cream scooper,
I can unearth from my drawer of stuff
I see things more closely,
basking sleepily in the sun of late day.
open my senses, listen and laugh,
touch the ground under
live without fully being there.
When I'm fully present
I get so caught up in the "once."
“Once,” I felt a poet friend's enormous wave of pity
for "people like me."¨
She said, "you need to define the end of simple civility."
I searched for a response, emblematic of me.
My silence froze the early morning sun
"You got something, you don't want it,
but you just can't let go," she said.
“All your yesterdays are tomorrows,
that doesn't happen to everybody,
take advantage of it.”
She had the sixth sense,
dreamsense, I call it.
Still, no need to make
a dramatic production of it.
Posted on 11/20/2012
Copyright © 2021 June Labyzon
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 07/13/13 at 09:51 AM|
this is an incredible ode, June and that next to last stanza could describe my dilemma to a tee. I too am not free or at liberty to file conveniently away my yesterdays ( as all the sages are apt to instruct me to do ) for reasons to do with deep and profoundly occurring and emotional themes attached to them, all having to do with a particular love most recently found and most recently lost, and in a sense, yesterdays serve for perusal of such, that in so tarrying in, we may find the reason or explanation, why such a gift as is presented us so readily, should as readily be wisked away, leaving the residual and everlasting longing and heartache.