Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Jeremy Toombs writes

Marie’s Birthday Weekend Pome: Monday Morning

mists hangs high over the low hilltops early mornin’ birds are back and forth to and fro callin’ out: come back come back come back 

as the river runs west dressed in its own mist and its own sounds of water smoothing over river rock murmuring along

a white bird takes flight low low low nearly grazing the water with each wing flapping beauty against the air there seems to be no care here pre-sunshine down by the river morning my mind state is peace

this lease I’ve found on these happy days I will come to own by whatever means I can capture emotion: not letting negativity in but this should not be the truth I desire

no, for it’s only by walking through fire and siring sorrow slipping into these blues when I lose my way and feel feel feel feel out the way but fast like running down mountains searching w/out looking

hearing w/out listening

feeling w/out thinking

“hold on tightly, let go lightly” I heard a friend say

I reckon this could smooth the way forward moving us all along together as we change hand holds one person to another

all of us should be lovers with each look let go your feelings and see that freedom is found in the midst of loving stronger moment to moment till moments don’t exist and time is as subtle in our minds as rivers flowing going endless smoothing over all

these rocks.

1 comment:

  1. These long lines are reminiscent of much of the poetry of Walt Whitman and of the Beats who revered him. This is an unusually short, and uncharacteristically subdues poem by Whitman titled "Cavalry Crossing a Ford":

    A kine in long array, where they wind betwixt green islands;
    They take a serpentine course—their arms flash in the sun—Hark to the musical clank;
    Behold the silvery river—in it the splashing horses, loitering, stop to drink;
    Behold the brown-faced men—each group, each person, a picture—the negligent rest on the saddles;
    Some emerge on the opposite bank—others are just entering the ford—while,
    Scarlet, and blue, and snowy white,
    The guidon flags flutter gaily in the wind.


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