| Author | Message | ||
| M
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3870 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Rotagravure, Cedars Breaks seaandbell (Debi Carwell) to capture poetics . . . an elusive underbelly of clouds, this task of obsessive, unmade love vials of sage, dutifully filled, always dry too brightly on paper horizons drag the hills for shadowed verse the interplay of light holes, and seek remainders in a spread-out collage of beaten adjectives. invariably, words are window shoppers, peer into a sad, dusty store then become one I trace a hardened feather, pause near a stream’s conjugation, need so much more. knowledge cursed hearts faint in their own apothecary yet these are real things, requiring careful measure, something sublime the millwork West buried under cities, stars listen to old tales, missing half the sky. we fight to learn the abstract wind only to lose control again … a ghostly stampede of words as yet uncaught. in densities of wild grief they circle a withered town, nameless eternity takes patience so I begin again with foundations, burned cradles, maybe uncover how life ends or why it starts, but the tiny ghosts evaporate into the broad sweep of washed sky leaving dried bodies behind answers come only in scribbled sand if I can gather the splintered eve naturally, like breathing, full of an ancient, red-veined sun . . . diorama engraved in miniature pine orchestrate the unseen, stratas’ fragile note, cello moon I want to fathom, once and for all, the depth and fall of love, it’s relative loss as it pertains to bituminous coal, sandstone, laden with its’ past crumbles alone in starless outposts of cedar, bent like dark chords of grief. I try to untangle them, but they fly away haunting a coyote’s bark. Pinus aristata, scrimshaw carved of a thousand twisted watches thin pulse lingers over stone another stack of thorns peeled to soft cores, yet the words found are only pulp old drums approach on dried skins setting little stars aside ancient things move, rock and alpine meadow a calypso begun with the rhythm of the rain and suddenly I’m taken, unwritten, how rain slips easily into silver words the perfect absolution of trees, spoken flash, a green voice needing no explanation and my notes, empty seeds left open wet on roots |
