Wednesday, April 30, 2008

As a Word (redux)

As a word.
(a love poem)


Words do not well describe sorrow.
but words are the only,
the sole seed yet to sow.
The circumference belayed in inset, is
hollowed out,
as devastated
as though a via:
you is gone,
i has been made.

The charm smells to lilac,
and soft sponge is turf
at certain forest pansy;
Like the finch and lute in rhyme.
They do not hear, nor
do not see once the timid jester, wane.
They foreshadow self,
and uncertain do not sit,
nor do they learn to play.
As one self proclaimed,
the called bird would 'lieve,
and would be 'lieved.

But the dense grass, is hopeful,
as burden on life,
as the constant up turn
as baton wing:
the singing of fall song bird,
collapses as that sound to 'lance.
No interruption nor continuous animus;
a la viva sinco royale':
oh, the five regal exclamations!

The dense snow mound spirea,
as all the lush things of summer
in their floral bloom,
like the certain one in love,
unsteady to remain,
radiates again.

I hear the sound.
It is a quiet and not without hearing:
The crisp morning fog
rises o'er olympics,
then glides down to puget sound;
the distant silent quarter,
the icy mid march snow
makes glide the stiff glass.
wretched,
in debt, i is beholden to a dream.
It swirls,
down by blueberry bog,
and strawberry field.

There is woman,
is vision,
is most true friend.
She can hold in her heart the whole love.
She rises out of life.
There is figurine, and mirror,
as she is multiplied.

Imagine a star rock.

There are mountain passes where the aspen quake
where the plates tectonic,
shift and leave things different.

But some things stay the same.
where is i sorrow?
where is i pain.
something i took,
something you granted.
the rainbow gathers algebraically
toned to pastoral brilliance.
i would say the truth outright;
i would languish.

i would say in she,
perfect, like a rainbow, half;
A circle of complete inflection.
though one could wrap a sound, or scent,
in tones of she to modes which quiver lips,
and whole bodies writhe in agonies,
as fog which veils nothing.
the truth bare and revealed, is
the solid azalea row,
two diagonal, three straight a cross.

Hips on rose and alium seed,
the stiff smell of garlic and the sound,
butterfly bushes blowing in the breeze,
toast with fried egg,
a good stiff coffee been as roast.

i falters.

An audacity can not hope.
one cannot recompense to that which is not seen.
such sits and waits,
having hung my head.
again the stiff mountain wind wails.
wait by the creek for water to pass;
while the water passes,
meditates,
it discovers she, as though she were for i,
and even water cannot falter,
as tragedy were here beheld first.

the humans marvel in there able ties.
the cryptic modes,
and the ways of corn fields rowed;
when i was young and she was young,
i wondered where she was,
and now i knows.


rrzollinger
c. 2008

4 comments:

my-yo said...

an already breaking heart,
cleansed with tears
by such beautiful words.
thank you

rr said...

this poem, has been altered to fit your viewing screen.

my-yo said...

second read through
still makes me cry.
thanks again rod,
somethimes it take a true friend
to yank the right string
in a blistered heart.

holli zollinger said...

genius rod.
"the rainbow gathers algebraically
toned to pastoral brilliance"

"toast with fried egg, a good stiff coffee been as roast."

images registering to the back of cornea.
a poem to read again and again and again and a gain.