The soul of a poem can be round and full, ebbing and flowing with the phases of the moon or choppy- with the staccatolike substance of a November storm on the bay of Chequamegon. These are the things I reminisce over decaf tea wheeling around over overly polished tile reflecting thinning blue and gray and the scent of ammonia and lemon scented bleach and grandkids- The soul of a poem is my only visitor in this has-been Purgatory; letting the words create the landscape. letting the landscape take me on ventures away from the vacant stares of once vibrant, now sedated,weathered friends,enemies,lovers... 'Easy does it,Charlie.You ain't gonna get too far in that blue linen robe and paper slippers. I hear ya'.The land.Yes.The land is calling us back.'
Reason for writing:
In this poem I attempt to illustrate the importance of words
and language in our lives.The language itself has geometric
and mystic shape,in essence a 'living' entity;anchoring us
to the world of the material,yet also preparing us for the
decline of physical life and transcendence of the soul...
Birth sign: Not entered
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