Tuesday, July 14, 2009

every spectrum contains a circle

i. it started near the garden of almost blooming

the pale blue shadow of a predictable leaf of graph
dripped behind the green sun of a fuschia terrace
on an afternoon filled with the geometric curve of insteps:

easy wide to eyeball this, from the sigh gasp calves
to the scarlet thrust of glamour toes in beige sandals.

this was the craving summer of grimy gnat filled screens
and curved lines that infuriated the crispness of Euclid.

and what was simply advertised as a failure of the will
became a rainbow of coincidence hidden in erupting leaves.

ii. after mid-summer the seasons start to change

the shadows of mimosa buds, having lost their scent,
form black comedic masks on the rain rusted siding.

we could smell the orange winds of autumn
hiding beneath the humid hems of summer
and the silver underside of weigelia leaves
that warned of scripted trysts unplanned.

a silver key balanced on the black mold,
unblenched, of the rocking chair armrest-
the chair painted in dramatic flowers
by the arm of a child expressing thanks:

this key could not open the painted doors
that lavishly barked the entrance to the garden-
it was a path we could not take.

iii. there are many ways to rectify the forgotten

in a dehydrated attempt to wetly articulate
the saved yellow globules of nostalgic desire,
the cancelled postage devoid of cellulose hinges:

deference is due to the wrappers of seed,
but only when the set of lavender ribbons
is proportional and, oddly, ironically demure.

there was the pitiless sun, not precisely prodigal,
that arced across peninsulas of the proverbial burning sand.

wait, she said, the waves are passing the bow
and the island is too distant.

iv. do not be disappointed by the refactoring of your bedclothes

in a windy foyer filled with antique chimes
and dead replications of the already dead,
do not sniff expectantly for a blowing wind
in this brown and barren alley of moldy must:

we cannot wipe away the chanting of the lost-
we can only hope to find someone who touches us
the way we touch ourselves.

9 comments:

  1. Mr. B,

    Very nice indeed. I love your style.

    I wish I could be see how you develop your end product, to see the various stages you go through, how you start, what you keep, what you discard.It must be a very interesting process.

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  2. So beautiful and captures the soul, I totally agree with Gray, above, you have a very unique style..Bravo!..Roan.

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  3. a beautiful read, Gerry, and I love the ending. ~rick

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  4. Your poems definitely require multiple reads in order to fully appreciate the intricately painted images and intertwining ideas.

    I particularly like these lines:

    the shadows of mimosa buds, having lost their scent,
    form black comedic masks on the rain rusted siding.

    ... but there are so many.

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  5. Lovely as usual. These lines jumped out at me and, gee, I long for that time:

    "we could smell the orange winds of autumn
    hiding beneath the humid hems of summer"

    Interesting how this poems ends with this:

    "we can only hope to find someone who touches us
    the way we touch ourselves"

    Hmm...

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  6. Gerry,
    Like this one a lot!! The ending so true and "the orange winds of autumn" paint, along with the rest of this amazing poem, most beautiful picture. Thanks for sharing!!
    -Alex

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  7. You are a cinematographer with words. Cult movies, too, not main screen.

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  8. Glad to give y'all something that had small moments of reading pleasure. Thanks for noticing and taking the time to comment. I remain your humble, appreciative knucklehead.

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  9. I derived immense pleasure from this one. Each of your verse throughout the poem got me thinking of so many things. And the way you ended the poem .. was superb as well. Infact each stage of tour poem was incredible. I look forward to read other pieces by you as well.

    The metaphor "chanting of souls" I find very profound. We all feel this way sometimes ... Bt life cheers us up ins some way or the other.

    Keep writing !!

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