Oh this touches the soul and: Oh this touches the soul and the part of the mind that feels! "wordweaver" was the first account name that I used at the beginning of my participation in online poetry so many many years ago now. And when the internet company was still operating wordweaver was also part of my email address. The memory of it brings so much back! There is also a curious feeling as feelings go that others have likewise choaen to be called that. Tres interessant!
Coming from a sculptor of: Coming from a sculptor of dazzling word art, your breathtaking review is something I'll be reveling in for a while. Thank you for perceiving my vision with such precision and insight. Endless gratitude.
This brilliant tribute to an: This brilliant tribute to an unflinching experimenter is also a clever celebration of the liberating effect of contradiction when its embraced, not judged. A thought-provoking perspective.
Oh, and I loved your hilarious picture caption! Still smiling.
That hits home like a: That hits home like a blizzard with no apologies. And the midlife moves on and there are moments that only poetry is left and the support thereof. Thank you for keeping this poem posted.
The circularity between the: The circularity between the first and last lines suggests the tide's regularity, and the short lines seem like the movement of the tides along the shore. That gives a great underscore to the subject matter of the poem, a way to visualize the metaphor while reading its powerful presentation in the poem.
Thank you. I will recount,: Thank you. I will recount, here, a story about my mother, in which her parenting strategy came back to roost, so to speak. When I was learning to ride a tricycle, and then a small bicycle, I took a lot of spills, many skinned knees. My parents, if they were watching, very often laughed at me. Before they had adopted me, they had observed other parents making a big deal out of the smallest injury, which, my parents believed, gave the child more reason to scream and also weakened the child's fortitude. During the summer after first grade, my day played softball with the church league, on a ball field that was, essentially, in the middle of acres and acres of cornfield. The bathroom facility was an outhouse, down a gravel path from the concreate bleachers. My mother and I had visited the outhouse, and walking back, her shoes slipped on the gravel and she landed on her rear end in a kind of tumble that would have made a clown proud. She landed hard with her legs at a right angle to the rest of her body, as if she were sitting stiffly in a lounge chair. I began to laugh. She reprimanded me and I laughed harder. After she got up, she lifted me up by my wrist, so that I was kind of dangling and began to swat me with her other hand. I was nearly hysterical with the hardest and longest laughter I have ever experience. So, she took me to the parking lot behind the dugout, put me in the car, and locked me in; then she returned to watch the game. When she and my father returned, I had fallen asleep in the car, but upon waking I began laughing again and could not stop.
When she told this story to with great indignity to my grandparents, who were visiting the next weekend, she apparently expected them to be as offended by my laughter as she was on the night of the incident. My grandmother told her, "Why are you upset? You have been teaching him to do that every time you laught at him when he falls of his bike. What else would he know to do?" After that, the open laughter following a small injury completely stopped; although, after each injury, they always told me that I wasn't really hurt, and that the injury didn't really hurt---it was all in my mind.
I watched the Warner Brothers Bug Bunny cartoons well into my adolescence, and when, during adolescence, I heard Daffy Duck say, in one of those cartoons, "I can't stand pain," I began to repeat that in my father's presence, any time I had opportunity to bring it up in conversation. He was far more dignified in his anger than my mother was, but my repetition of that line was always met with the sternest of scowls.
Aloof and detached parenting: Aloof and detached parenting seemed to have been to go of the day. My recollections lead to moments where we were held at arms length, given encouragement but without any soppiness lest we become soft and spineless in a wild and jagged world outside our hearth. Thus any inkling of true emotion whether sympathetic or contrary were cloaked with a diffident matter of fact, and get down to business mien. In later years our own parenting style was warmer and more affectionate. Quite strange when put in a petrie dish and under a microscope. In the end, as with many, Poetry was and has become and most probably will continue to be the gyroscope of the psyche and the inner person.
https://youtu.be/-Vz44R5EuL0
So much is going on: So much is going on underneath the textual expression that makes this poem weightier than its few lines betray. At least I am perceiving more than its denotation. Thanks for sharing.
Just loving how architecture: Just loving how architecture is modified as "untiring" that no matter how ancient it may be, as long as it is standing, and more so in the stillness of night becomes an ever fresh testament to its builder and designer. And Van Gogh yellow is a superb homage to probably my most esteemed artist of any discipline or field of artistry. A slithering moon is an image that enunciates motion of ungraspable goodness! Reading this poem in keeping with its inimitable parts brings an exquisite devastation. Lovely almost beyond words.
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