Everything
Everything’s so full of lasts,
quivering, on the brink.
Time thrusts forward.
The body vehicle will not cease
decaying, children growing
ever distant, the umbilicus unraveling
to unbearable lengths
as we circumvent this world.
Pause pause pause!
People pass by in a slurry
of incessant transformation.
Surely there must be a limit?
(There is not.)
Death, inbuilt in those I’ve born
is yet half grown in me;
close to flowering powerfully out
of my grandmother’s powdery furrows.
Routine lends the illusion of solace:
tranquilised to truth we sleep
fitfully, swaddled against horror.
* First published in Bluepepper
Comments 0
excellent – the apparent stasis of not-death
Ha! That’s it exactly. Thank you.
Author
Ha! That’s it exactly. Thank you.
Wow powerful as always Michele! And as synchronicity weaves its magic this morning the only other response I can find for your words is what I read this morning on Jeff Foster’s Facebook Page “Sometimes in doing nothing
everything is undone,
and love is revealed to be
the only true medicine.” x
I love that, Dianne…thank you. x
Wow powerful as always Michele! And as synchronicity weaves its magic this morning the only other response I can find for your words is what I read this morning on Jeff Foster’s Facebook Page “Sometimes in doing nothing
everything is undone,
and love is revealed to be
the only true medicine.” x
Author
I love that, Dianne…thank you. x
Michele, let’s just all be grateful for small mercies. We are at least “swaddled” against the “horror”.
That’s true, Malcolm. And perhaps the best we can hope for in this world at least.
Michele, let’s just all be grateful for small mercies. We are at least “swaddled” against the “horror”.
Author
That’s true, Malcolm. And perhaps the best we can hope for in this world at least.
Routine, sometimes I think it stows us from the chaotic, when at other times I find it renders an ordinary colour palette. Does one need routine survive, or does routine need us to live?
But for the thoughts within the poems collective, it does paint a living art between where we find ourselves.
Thanks for your – always original! – responses, Sean. Cheers.
Routine, sometimes I think it stows us from the chaotic, when at other times I find it renders an ordinary colour palette. Does one need routine survive, or does routine need us to live?
But for the thoughts within the poems collective, it does paint a living art between where we find ourselves.
Author
Thanks for your – always original! – responses, Sean. Cheers.