This is a recent poem that I wrote on one of those nights where I found myself falling awake at 2am. I’d like to hear your interpretations. Writing poetry is pretty much novel to me.

January 23, 2013

Leaves are falling, calling, for change, for life to rearrange, shift, and swift. Please, it’s almost spring, and we cling to the promise of annual renewal, of exercise and bucket list approval.

A leaf with its dead veins, that once were run by pressure, hydrostatic. Pressure, emblematic-of the force to become someone, to careen through curves of restriction and challenge, and to not rest upon the laurels of ones before. It’s this pressure that feeds ambition, yet can be drained by parasites. Tricky parasites are they, sucking the courage we finally had to disobey, sucking our supply of confidence we finally arrayed, and letting us hold on with just enough to stay focused so we can produce, and fight recluse. In that way our exhibition is their requisition, and furthermore, their commission.

So after the benediction that we are given as we fall from the tree of life is finalized, we litter the ground with our wounds. Search for other wounded, others not spoonfed but soon led, to the gates of reality and to the marks of transient fallacy. And although those are opposite, they conduce this plot, this thought-that wind, in all it’s cursory movement, may lengthen its flows to pick up these lows,low lying people, but not lesser than equal. Continue on to the sequel, the second turn around, to burn this ground, covered with carbon, into a grey canvas. A palette of black and white, so that it can absorb all of you and you can reflect all you need. The movement of air around you, inside of you, enlarging you, and an exchanging of gases, in fast passage, reprieving you again that you will fulfill a call to arm yourself with love, to bury yourself in predilection to give, to heed to the call of life on your back and on your body, and run resolutely into the abyss of potential legacy that awaits your seizure.


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