short stories
the stairs led by each
to the following place
the surface contributed
to the distance – but
by and by opportunity
was past
the cup was being filled
satisfaction was close
at hand the cup valued
its use and through it
knew the intimacy of lips
in a way we can only envy
they were told that the
the light they saw was dead
dead for millions of years
their eyes perceive only
the past – all that is seen
has already been – this
stopped them in their tracks
the symbol kept confusing
itself with the metaphor
the trail was well worn
so it should have been easy
but that was the trouble
you see!
it leads – the path
to places seen constantly
yet over and again refused
as notice – for notice
requires as we take – so
much so that most of us
are not willing to give
on the front porch
lay a feather
it lay there very still
the wind had not found it
the porch didn’t mind
the feather was light
and stillness
served it’s purpose
squatting behind a bush
the lord of the manor
never realized that all
he left behind would
contribute to equality
with time…..
1.
Jan | November 9, 2011 at 1:17 pm
This is good stuff. I hardly ever stick with poetry, but this got me. I like the feather on the porch a lot. You’ve been edging up to poetry for a long time. Call them stories. That’s fine. I like the free flow, compared to the congestion of your verbal work on canvas.