© RH Peat 12/26/2010 2:58pm
form: 8 stanzas/ 34 lines
metaphor” Recalling the words when only the feeling remains.
The Half-Forgotten
The Half-Forgotten
The light in the daydream
might have been anonymous
for all I can remember is the cozy
in that one image of the dry leaves
slipped under the door.
A profound image for someone
leaving you behind red-eyes.
I fainted out of my chair
at the time as it nicked my bones.
68 and still able to marvel
has left me too blind in the trance
to know that cold and darkness
exists in every bouquet of spring.
To know where the light
begins or ends in the confusion
or fusion inside the divine
is understanding a drink of water
cool on the lips ,sweet on the tongue.
Every fallen twig and leaf
in autumn is too sacred to hold,
for the only truth in it all
dissolves like sand
through the brittle fingers.
Only the aching bones
know the joy in the warmth
from bright sunlight's hold
and the easy motion of days.
For summer is too damn short
to grasp how dear the joy is
within moving without pain.
I'd send you the moon if it would
help you discover your pulse.
God knows its easier to find it
inside the blackness that's night.
© RH Peat 12/26/2010
''Every fallen twig and leaf in autumn is too sacred to hold, for the only truth in it all dissolves like sand through the brittle fingers''... astute obsevation...lovely expressions- hold the philosophy of the ever-passing Time in whole...beautiful work
Of the three poems of yours I’ve read today, this is my favorite perhaps because I identify closely with your intent. This would be a great soliloquy (I’m thinking of a one act play of one’s life, like the Mark Twain that Hal Holbrook did.) Have you ever considered writing a stage-play? These reflections on life while your own, we all have in common in one way or another. A hint of sadness, memories that still leave question marks of why and in the closure, still seeking closure....This one is bookmarked. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.
A song of longing in the deep pockets of the heart, tiptoeing to the edge of sorrow daring to become a poem...and a wonderful poem it is...Dorothy A Poet Who Loves To Sing
The language is your willing slave, Mr. P. I see The Yin-Yang running through the entire piece: The trace of light in the darkness and the tinge of darkness in the light.