Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Kar ō shi

To the wayworn,
Be still.
It creeps up on you and into your bones.
Settles heavy on your skin.
The force of gravity increases tenfold,
and the weight of some alien world begs for your affection. 
Ruminations become corporeal,
crow's feet tiptoe naughty in the dark.
The house falls silent, the plush beneath you soft,
yet your cognizance rests on lost intentions,
lest your memory march to meet the light of sworn fealty.
You vowed and forgot.
Promises broken.
Wished but locked it away.
In the hour before tomorrow,
drink.
Let it wash the wrong down smooth.
And again, with hands to heart,
eyes resting in the wake of an encore
pound your fence posts deep,
plant your Sharon rose to hide the anthills seething
know your light will bring the day
over and over
again.



________________________________________________________________________________

9 comments:

  1. Some times I am at a complete loss for words. This is one of those times. But I wanted you to know I was here. :)

    ReplyDelete
  2. I can' t write poetry at all, but I can appreciate it. I loved the image of planting your roses to hide the anthills and crow's feet tiptoeing in the dark. Lovely, Erin

    ReplyDelete
  3. Ah, a very nice poem. I think the first and last lines were the best for me.

    ReplyDelete
  4. I wish I could write poetry. Liked the last 3 lines the best.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Lovely poem and a nice surprise to read one!

    ReplyDelete
  6. You are right, though. Concentrating on being still is such an unpracticed experience, that the world seems much different when doing so.

    A drink before bed can't hurt anything either.

    ReplyDelete