For the soothing love
Of my beloved,
And the needy words
that departing want,
of the true little moments
of forbearing pride,
and all the things that
remained unsaid.
For the soothing love
Of my only beloved
And the deep awareness
Of things I will see,
I await an oddly
Long awaiting
Having thoughts of gardens,
And rivers, and trees.
And then,
When the night
is still as is dark
I sit on my knees.
Stillness`s a spark.
It` s silent, finally. I can only hear the needle` s noise through the fabric.It` s calm and soothing like the sound of the sea waves. I have no hostile thoughts, even the bad ones hurt less.Up, down! The needle appears and then disappears. A straight seam flows in my mind, a flat, background seam. The time passes with a different beat, the proper one, not too fast not too slow. Like in a good dream. The needle appears then it disappears, reminding me that it is real and feeding me its simple, undemanding friendship.
(the painting is a gift from my son)
My book
this book,
the earring in my lung,
the cherries
the cherries
and the blood spot.
My God
my God
forget me not!
the flower
the flower?
or the blood spot.
The lighthouse
that floats
on the iris of my eye
this stem that strangles me
is that I
The pool
the river
this sanitary thought
hanging
hanging
at the back of my throat
Mother
my mother
did you see?!
this beating
this beating
within and against me!
Your face,
that smile
a pin in my brain
Mother
my mother
take me home sane!
The chair of your voice
I drink from my mug
Billy!
Billy!
My hands are are cut!
The vase falls
Making the same
Noise, all over.
The vase breaks,
Not like an egg,
Empty, all over.
I wonder how
I have nothing to say
Nothing to disrupt
But my chilling
Sterilizing pride.
Over barren ground I stand, my brain cells refusing further noise abuse.
I dream of a new device that can mute the whole world and the reinvention of the country (as opposed to urban).
The field,
Conscious of time,
like a sundial
soothes me
by the breeze.
I walk,
Lights and shades
tattooing my skin.
I fancy
whole silence,
A flawless moment to accept
That I am made of
Abiding matter and
Patterns of anxiety.
A dread,
Over my brain
Summer plays
Like a can-opener
pressing my polite uprising
to scatter within
my walls,
like beads.
The clothes stain
The nurse-like clean
afternoon.
The clothes
hang
On the line,
Furiously improvising
In the wind.
I think of violins,
Lots of violins
In an eagerly united
Movement,
An attempt to clarity
And a wholesome thought.
The clothes rest.
When I regain sight of God
The world smoothly
flows within me,
colorful beads
In pacifying remembrance.
