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C’est Vrais, Still

The pain between us, ah yes, c’est vrais, the pain still

Between us, billows around us like a sail

Or, mira, perhaps I have mistaken the green frieze

Of the silver poplars in this the sixteenth

Spring of knowing one another

Or of not knowing.

For something it is not:

Or, not a sail, but a light, the eerie and dust

Filled light thrown off by the past:

Near my house in town, Bitte beats her pillows on the rails

Of the balcony around the dormer

Of the master bedroom of the majestic house

Where they live, a family

You and I—certemente-- know solitude and you, inexplicably

Ignore the dust in your house

While I battle mine:

You, accepting, me, da veras, in a swordfight

With a stage mustache

And then, overarching us, mas ancha que, greater than the pain

I want to think, the love

Between us, the knowing, the cascading

Days and years, this is a translucent carmine

Sky, a dancing air, framed by sturdy cherry trees

In bloom, where the newly hatched bees

Suck, flower to flower

Ah, Dio, the love that cross-pollinated itself without

Our intervention arising

from when I had my breakdown

And then you yours

Now, after seeing

That the paint mares along the old road

I’ve traveled forty years

Are foaling, little foals asleep

Small as a children’s t-shirts caught in the alfalfa;

Te lo juro, A patch of pale and tiny horse

at rest, in the field

Rachminoff, a wind, the blossoms disintegrate

So that petals fall, swirl, down over the lawn

Of my rental house

Filling the footprints, the places

Where grass won’t grow no matter the sodding

And who half-lives here,

So much of her, still

elsewhere?

Andrews 06

The best of poetry has transparency-- its meaning/themes are apparent.  Life is illuminated by the lyric-- the weaving together of images conveying emotion, in the line that is like song. I find that art arises from the most self-honest moments. Artifice, not art, comes into play when I intend to write a poem, rather than the poem coming to me.

Contact me at palabrasymas@hotmail.com .  I will be happy to exchange words with you, that is to say, to share drafts and musings.  I am house-bound these days, a happy thing at times and a curse at others, as I fell from my wonderful mare Apris, fractured my leg, spent six months in a nursing home, and fled back to the dilapidated doublewide on beautiful Dry Creek in north Fort Collins, just as I was about to be housed with a fourth geriatric roommate.  The Italians say, "Di mi tutto..."  The Latinos say, "Digame todo."  I say, "Tell me everything."