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Idle Worship
by Philip F De Pinto
She had
A quiet air
About her
Self taut as the rope
On which we walked
Sans net
The sun set
Aortas on fire
Chord ripped
Parachute descends
I tell her she's cute
As the button
I am now missing
She says what else is new?
And adds:
Perhaps if you had been
Paying acuter attention
In sewing class
I would still be attached
To you!
On cue
They fall
The icicles
Perched on
The eye ledge
On cue they descend
As digits on a keyboard
And shatter
And disseminate as crystal
Which is a loud mouth
In comparison to
Snow flakes which are mute
Nevertheless we get their drift
In a cabin holed
Up somewhere in The Empire State
Somewhere a moon crests
If vocal chords had not been taking requests
Who would be the wiser
Get drift that we were not
As perfectly tuned as we assumed
Our pianoforte - was
Never very far from having clumsy comets slamming
And hitting sour cream
As we harbored superficially neath the crust
Idle worship
Twirls and makes thread
Of a wind
A wind fierce
And filing through the pierce of an ear
In the year of our lord
Lost for shears the wind claws at window panes
Taps its morse code in the dark above our divan
Or is the wind tapping for reason it needs
To borrow a cup of sugar or salt
The amalgam of which I held in my arms
The mixed breed of which I could not afford to lend
Not a pinch or heaping teaspoon
Lest I be absolved of such
As had not the time in me to dissolve
And dissolve they did in time
Hence: lost
Lost for sugar for salt for sparks intrinsic and dark
For words as would have us outed as stars or gophers from their holes
Or wounds crawled out from under their scabs
As would witness our shadow or light
Indicative of an early Spring in our step or late
Of late snails sailing on cheeks leaving in their wake a smear
Or coral and I am reminded of the time
You ceased to call me dear;
Thus my aorta is broken
As a token of your depreciation
And what is the moral?
But it is hard to swallow
Such snails as leave their trails
Hard to fathom such strands
As are twirled on a road's fork
Holed up in a cabin
Somewhere in New York
The beads of weeping snails
Their long over dew sailing down the memorial stream
While the memory clings
And flows mellifluous as the kisses of butterfly wings
I am reminded
Their hinges once held doors
To that cabin holed somewhere in the drifts
While a wind clawed its morse code
Above our divan
In retrospect
Notes are long held
Embraces which cannot release
Their dove or balloon
In the wake of such and such
And as dumb as we know how to play or deny the tune
Still we know where the quiet air about her was headed
Which is not anywhere near where the words suggest
Or melody or anywhere
Reaching a certain level
Before the fair sun sets
And aortas burn
And chords are ripped
Descending their parachutes
On snows which are mute
Nevertheless we sense their drift
And reverberation is to standing still
In relationship with my incessant need
To crawl up the hill
While continuing to blare blue herons
Down into the smolder of your eyes
Which once held surprise galore and jade
Which have been plucked from my setting
And reset in their new;
What do now but
The bridge of the nose be raised
That a skiff of a tear or slew
May file through;
Through
I and U?
12/01/2013 Posted on 12/01/2013
Copyright © 2024 Philip F De Pinto
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 12/01/13 at 05:12 PM You knock me out of the park with this one, Philip. What a pleasure to read such a work on this first day of December. |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 12/01/13 at 05:42 PM What a wonderful write my friend. Reading this helps take the chill of this cool December day. |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 12/03/13 at 03:37 PM This brings me back for more readings - such a brilliant piece, so chalk full of thought and word play and careful construction, how each line melds perfectly into the next. |
| Posted by Veronica Phoenics on 12/04/13 at 03:06 PM a true wordsmith, too many good lines to point out a couple. |
| Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 12/22/13 at 10:26 PM Mixed metaphors galore, but the theme runs raw without solution I think.Your poetic path wanders but keeps coming back to theme making a cohesive whole. |
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