It Can’t Be This Way

The cliffs turn ice into tomorrow.
The tolling day aches like the sun.
A whisper is only a whisper in the drum.
The making of the moon heals and opens wounds.

Every excerpt ties the leaves together...
We live in someone else's retold story, left out the plot.
Veins and portals open to the text...
Imagination images itself free,
But is tangled in the roots, vehicles, veins, parting loose, betrayed.

In light the candle stands unlit.
In memory everything forgets itself.
I watch the images on the glass,
Hear Celtic songs that died when I was born.
I made my way to dreams of voices frowning with regret.

Red lips and Gauguin or trials like patrols in a castle
Repent sensation and response...another tale:
Only one choice is no choice at all.

Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 07/15/2009 03:33PM by petersz.

This was written while I was watching Hans Richter's film, "Dreams Money Can['t] Buy," from 1947.

I like the exploration of this topic, Peter. Philosophical ramblings often uncover nuggets of profound truth(s). I've come back to this one a few times and I like the way it puts forth suppositions without preaching. Nicely done.

Les

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 07/15/2009 02:39PM by les712.

Thanks, Les. Too often I find myself preaching in poems, and I think that is a weakness that denies the possibilities for openness inherent in the medium.

Peter