Gestures

I thought about the intimate time
Many years after we left
What we had on Morphe Street.

I found my mind aching in my hands,
Wished for the tissues of the moon,
Became placid, portrayed myself
Languid on the sea of my regret.

You grew to wonder at betrayal,
Wished for the mansions of the soul,
Ex-ed where you should have Oh-ed.

At least you grew beyond the triangles
Of your origin…I reached deeply into
The arches of my youth, haunted, fragmented.

If giants roam the hills at night
I will someday make sense in the emerald light…
Or perhaps the finishing touches of my oblong mind
Will sharpen with the whistling wind.

I found my mind aching in my hands,
Wished for the tissues of the moon,
Became placid, portrayed myself
Languid on the sea of my regret.

Splendid imagery here...wonderful use of language. Good poem throughout, but this verse is special.

Joe

[www.theonion.com]

[2] Johnny,

the impermanence of superficial petit-bourgeois culture in the age of modernity.,

or,
my heart belongs to dada
dada dada dada dada dada

or I was mentored by the author of "That Dada Strain"

or I lived with a multimedia sculptor for 23 years

or all of the above.

[1] Thank you JOe, I have always been dependent on the kindness of strangers...

amo,

Peter

Became placid, portrayed myself
Languid on the sea of my regret.

I too appreciate the imagery, especally in these lines.

K.Q.

Thanks, Khalida,

Peter