Tremble Still

Tremble Still

Saddled up and moving,

glancing around, mimetic, telekinetic, gradual, sub optimal, eternal.

All of the gravity can happen,

Electro magnetism start from any point,

sing any song, short or long,

the duration, elation tragic comedy and graft with

elbows of blood on the table by the plate and knife.

The soda and lime for stripes on the gravel, for a cold drink, a sip with a straw.

Toned down or tuned up.

A wash, a habit, a new start.

Tepid bath, grey water, the Thames.

Is it worth taking the time to read?

Is it worth saying five or ten were here

like a high water mark, as association of experiences, community,

a sunny spot for the potted plants.

A little dance of the animals and the time of day.

A little more, a little less.

The harmonies of peak experience and the gathering of sadness

as if everything were work or play or love.

We know better.

We know how it feels in the morning and again, at night, lying down.

How the grass is, how the air, the fire and water consubstantiate to

wet ashes molded hard with the freeze like the ruts in a sandy mud.

The red soil of turmoil and the white hubris of another direction,

a discovery of dimension in the midst of everything.

Always returned to as the subject of our little endeavor,

our foray to belief or doubt as if everything had a land of kings

for imagination to play in.

We know better.

We play in the bone yard of the dead,

move our limbs with long animal inheritance and instinct,

the sure eye of pleasure,

the savor of beauty,

the gist of graft borrowing as at the well where all must drink

as by necessity at table, we look to each other and as something to say,

held back, the snow around the dark window starting to accumulate,

the bills and the mail.

Here is how we came and what we came for.

The press of wine, forcing the moment to question or crisis,

the digging deep of archetype and architecture.

We have seen this ground before.

The dark night, Eliot in his church yard,

the little finger of awareness,

the star shine and moon loan,

the love song, tryst and bargain.

The coming back from the mountain or seven years in the desert,

the parting water and prattle of little waves on the lake beach of gravel

before the freeze or the groan of river ice as finally it starts to melt

and unhinge in chunks.

I start to unhinge in chunks.

The chorus down the mountain side

with the standing pen of spectators,

the little yellow flowers with purple hearts shuttered,

trembling against the breezes of Spring.

Let it be so, you empty space of calling forth and preserving austerely.

Sheer presence as the necessary billion years leaves us all breathless and behind.

Rolf's Poems and Pictures

Comments

Tremble Still — No Comments

Leave a Reply Cancel reply