The Return

I still recognize the smooth lips
And intermittent flurries of rain
As necessity abstracts to wonder
And silence and the waiting break
In the careful consideration of pain.

Witness the narrative day,
Its origin in the sun,
Light on the table before the image
Of silent, stern men
Reading their lives
In the smudged, black type.

All rivers run together
With gravity
Return to the mountain
In clouds.

Thought merges with voice
With the roar
Of the new coffee machine,
While the maker of the footsteps,
Silent, beyond the glass,
Capped insanity, makes his way,
Makes his way out
And back again,
Seeking salvation from mercy.

Then I, too, am off—
Burdened with my friend,
Fellow poet...
His voice and question:
“How long
Can I survive
The biopsy?”

Maybe this is too much of an abstract rambling for anyone to follow, although I did enjoy writing two or three of the better phrases.

Cheers,

Peter

I still recognize the smooth lips
And intermittent flurries of rain

and

Witness the narrative day,
Its origin in the sun,
Light on the table before the image
Of silent, stern men

were my two favorite sections and I enjoyed this. I just didn't comment before because the end of the poem made me a little sad...and then I wasn't sure what to say other than, in answer to the last line...hopefully a LONG LONG TIME.

The poem originated in the phrase, 'the narrative day' - I had to write a poem for that phrase. Yes, lets hope he live a long, long time, without greater fears than are necessary.

Thanks for your sensitivity to my friend's situation.

Cheers,

Peter