Thursday, May 30, 2019

James Diaz writes

How I Waited All These Years

sometimes, yes
I am too broken
for the truth 

for the truth
sometimes, yes
I don't know what else to do
other than
hold on 

to all of the pieces 
I once mistook for whole 

I take my time
getting to the shore 

cause sometimes 
I really don't have a leg to stand on
Image result for adrift on spar paintings
Shipwreck, the Rescue -- J. M. W Turner

1 comment:

  1. A man adrift on a slim spar
    A horizon smaller than the rim of a bottle
    Tented waves rearing lashing dark points
    The near whine of froth in circles,
    God is cold.

    The incessant raise and swing of the sea
    And growl after growl of crest
    The sinkings, green, seething, endless
    The upheaval half-completed.
    God is cold.

    The seas are in the hollow of The Hand;
    Oceans may be turned to a spray
    Raining down through the stars
    Because of a gesture of pity toward a babe.
    Oceans may become grey ashes,
    Die with a long moan and a roar
    Amid the tumult of the fishes
    And the cries of the ships,
    Because The Hand beckons the mice.
    A horizon smaller than a doomed assassin’s cap,
    Inky, surging tumults
    A reeling, drunken sky and no sky
    A pale hand sliding from a polished spar.
    God is cold.

    The puff of a coat imprisoning air:
    A face kissing the water-death
    A weary slow sway of a lost hand
    And the sea, the moving sea, the sea.
    God is cold.

    --Stephen Crane


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