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Frozen Retreat
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Sorrow It all comes down
to a choice:
safety or freedom.
The forest expands
as I walk, still a
compact heaven,
a corral for inner
stallions,
but threatening
the safety
I sold myself for.
I don't know the god
of this grumbling
mausoleum,
but it seems just
fine with two colors
and a Benedictine sky.
Another January and something
needs to happen.
Someone's well-bred garden
is acting up:
honeysuckle vines
still shimmy
and they're grinding
out the blues . . .
even in silence, some freedom
and primitive jazz.
My old cat used to
follow me on these
clean-shaven winter
evenings.
I like to think,
in his new life, he
is a living myth
in a softer kingdom.
How I miss his ferocious joy.
Cats make the right choices
and I am just a
temporary lord of
limping rivers and
mystified squirrels,
some embalmed branches
and leftover surgical air . . .
a safe and furious
visitor on my
way to forever.
Patricia Joan Jones
At each significant turn in
At each significant turn in life these two choices always present themselves: should I stay (safety) or should I go (freedom) now? And this is decidedly a feline wisdom compared to a canine companionability. To be free and safe in the same breath, a tightwire balancing act that promises never to be perfected. For me that is where the heart of sorrow lies, to be caught between two great currents on a fast sinking island called, now. I am deeply moved by this poem and its words.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
Thank you kindly for your
Thank you kindly for your insights that tunnel deep and beautifully to the heart of my expression.
A wonderful gift from a great wordsmith!