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Requiem for Yesterday
A thousand songs are
hidden in the pilgrim
trees:
rivals for the best idea,
while sleep is the patron saint
of death: black yet bustling with
the platinum we are
and out of the speechless
ground and an erupting sky
there is a familiar home
in between:
a crimson hearth born and reborn
at the end of too many
brittle days.
It's what we thought was safe
that kills us in the end.
The morning is crowded with
plumes of hope-like mist;
immaculate comfort all around.
How I want the newness of you.
I long for every moment I never spent
with you.
I curse the memories that
were never born.
Outside my window
prongs of gray are shredding
my simple white
and stabbing the last
scraps of summer.
All that softness behind yesterday.
And some kind of ancient wings
are carrying you and the promise
of you and those thousand
songs into what was.
You fly through fields of blue
where no one walks and only
dreams dare to go.
Silent pulses are the last
notes before snow
and I repent of all I didn't
hear in the living hours.
The oaks believe me:
their branches are the
slowest beating wings
shaking off the shapes
of youth:
just lattice for the sky
to climb with passion
then forget.
In forgetting we are
true and we are free.
It's best to live in the
promise of our lord sleep,
or so I thought . . .
until there was you.
Patricia Joan Jones
“...that kills us in the end.”
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so re-readable. Mark of a fav poem - rereadability :D
Always a thrill when you stop
Always a thrill when you stop by and leave such supportive feedback. Many thanks.
What I like about your
What I like about your poetry, and in this poem, is your effortless glide between the vastly cosmic and the very personal, earthward detail. In your poems, you present an awareness of cosmic forces going on all around us, not disturbing but often enhancing our personal existence. So many people look up at the sky, and think "how far away." Your poems seem to say, "how comfortably near." This poem, and your others, are like a reply to the last four lines of the third stanza of Wallace Stevens major poem, Sunday Morning. What he spoke of, in the most general terms, and yet failed to extend, is given fullness and exuberance in your poetry.
Starward
I'm always delighted when you
I'm always delighted when you grasp the vision and intentions of my words, then express it so brilliantly. Thank you for this gift that is valued more than you know.
Thank you for the kind
Thank you for the kind ackowledgement . . . but, even moreso, thank you for the poetry you post, for sharing it with us, and for expanding us with your distinguished verbal abilities.
Starward
Ten Years From Now
Your poetry is going to sort out a thousand images and define them in perfection. Enjoyed the ride through the thoughts and colors that are now swimming in my head :D
I'm so sorry I didn't thank
I'm so sorry I didn't thank you earlier for this beautiful and uplifting feedback. Things have been pretty crazy, but I'm finally checking my comments. I do value your opinion. Thank you kindly.