Skip to main content

The Populace

I fall in love all day-
So many beautiful faces,
Hanging with day’s-end fatigue
Or broken open in the laughter
Of being young and knowing
It won’t end.
I see the boot-heel supplement

Of longed-for stature,
The unwavering sundry skirts,
Channels of gusting pride
That stirs the dust and dying embers
In my cavernous chest;
This feverish ardor
So devastating
I want to pity them,
So I can put a name to the ache.
And with a fervent affection
For the people as a people,
I step off the train
And tumble through rushes of life
Like a rock on a riverbed,
Then emerge into an otherworld
Of bright-light walled-in human vastness;
Thousands of bodies shining
With style and serenity
Like light rain on stained glass,

A oneness of effortless peace,
All streaming toward harmony of purpose-
Colorful drops of humanity
Blending in a watercolor city.

Comments

This is lovely, all those beautiful people in a watercolour city.
Beloved Dreamer said…
No poem should ever go unread. This is beautiful.I almost felt the rush of life around me. All alive and vibrant. Wonderfully done.
I will be back to see more.

love-bd
my backyard said…
Nice to see what you can make of the day-end rush of people.
Norma said…
If we were going to play the line game again (and you said you didn't) I would certainly choose this: "the laughter Of being young and knowing It won’t end."

Amazing.
.......deb said…
Your descriptions are so loving and lovely that I feel I might be less overwhelmed in a crowd, if I were able to summon the lines ahead of my steps.

I particularly like how you brought nature into this: "Like a rock on a riverbed"...
leonie said…
i LOVE your descriptions and i'm glad i posted my comment on the poetry thursday list late or i probably wouldn't have found you. i'll be back.
woman wandering said…
Your poetry is stunningly good ... I think that everytime i come here.

I hope there is a book one day, let me know so that I can buy it.
(I tried to comment the other day but Blogger thwarted that. This poem is worthy of more than one return visit as are the other poesm I've already read by you.)

I'm captivated by your pen-lens and the ease of your words flowing onto the paper in a logical, yet so picturesque and reflective manner. Time and again. I like your style, simply put.

This particular piece reminds me why I fell in love with reading others' poetry. That feeling or feelings that you capture puts me, the reader, in the moment, as if I'm there with you. That's a special ability. I savor those moments, as I read and re-read your poetry.
Omni said…
Wonderful poem!! :-)
RomanceWriter said…
Love this! Reminds me of being young and looking for a first love or an adventure in a far away place.

Popular posts from this blog

Dawn in an Hour

Dawn is in an hour;
in a night.
A light on the long street
on the grey river,
on a long walk of broken clays.
It takes only a streetlight
to bare the sighs,
the yawn of dark alleys,
of quiet honesty;
the great peace
of telling without cause,
without want.
The arm stretches
and guides the body;
the body doubles its warmth.
Laughter snaps
against brick and glass,
and the eyes combine;
heart combines with heart.
And dawn is in the hour,
in the night.

The Day My Brother Flew

The day my brother flew,
I prayed for the last time;
Asked for his acceptance,
A chance to say goodbye.
Stood inside the chapel,
Whispered through the motions,
Knowing in my chest
I did not believe.
Months gone from that day,
I stood inside a basement,
Staring out the window,
Chainlink in my eyes.
A host of white lights came,
Gathered right beside me,
Waited till I turned,
Slowly sank away.
I never told my folks.
They could not believe it.
I don't know what I saw,
If I’m lying to myself.
The day my brother flew,
I sat down on a stairstep,
Fingers in my hair,
Asking why I breathe.
He lived and enjoyed life.
I don’t even like it.
That was '91;
The answer never came.

When I See It

I don’t believe in time.
There's much more world left;
So much more to learn,
And I don’t believe in time.
I believe in shadow birds flying
Through the green of mown grass
Under the squint-bright sun;
An ocean dappled with clouds
And the white sails of small boats
Crossing my shoulder;
A thousand dynamic blooms
That I can’t name, speaking
With voices of children
And laughing as they pass;
The reassuring chatter
Of great wooden beasts
That sermonize patience
And continuity.
But I don’t believe in time
Or the limits it implies.
I don’t believe in the failure
Of the manifest soul.
I don’t believe death will result
From the cessation of habits
That feed my blood,
Because I won't believe
In a future nothingness
That I can’t see from here.