It's not the candle spasms
thinking shadowed
the odd eyed ikon face
It isn't the quiet so
viscous and there
something utters
coming from over the hedgerow
with the tongue running
off on one
hid behind the make believe cloud
the verbiage
This is something other than our usual here.
Remember the pictures
from the picture book.
Is this a person telling tales?
There are that many chthonic fingers
going at my feet.
from our whereever to this
way up there
the body vast
a mass of Himself
and ungettable
too much of everything
that won’t be troubled
by nothing or no one
The host can only be tasted,
a mouthful of strange trust.
a poison kindness
or near enough
undead paper dissolving
leaving a stain or
to be so alone
with that nameless something
puttering about at aching play
where once I kept accounts with
a steadyish hand.
WB,
ReplyDeleteAll conscious life leads toward puttering about at aching play in the twilight, as the long day closes and the shades of evening come on.
__
thinking shadowed
the odd eyed ikon face
It isn't the quiet so
viscous and there
something utters
coming from over the hedgerow
__
hid behind the make believe cloud
__
There are that many chthonic fingers
__
The hand will move where it list, steadyish or wobbly. It is a form of prayer, following the traces that have led us here..
It's good to have some form of prayer to hand, given that the official forms don't leap from the tongue at present.
ReplyDeleteBetter the aching play than the bookkeeping, I reckon.
The being so alone with that nameless something... can this be the common condition (oft felt but ne'er so well confessed), or is it that we have something other than our usual here?
ReplyDeleteComing back to this, the spiritual solitude can be felt keenly, as also the honesty that can taste the poison in the kindness and also the strangeness in the sort of trust distilled (artificially? -- or is symbolically merely same thing?) in the host.
But at best perhaps we can never be more than guests, or ghosts, at life's table. Hid behind the make believe cloud
Chthonic fingers recalls from somewhere Keats's demand that poetry ought to be something "felt on the pulse".
(Remembering he had been trained to be a physician.)
Following the traces that lead back toward the original stain. Incalculable by any known bookkeeping means.