elam

1.
the image of him surfaces again
from the ripples of chords and notes;
circles of calm, a desert spring
and here it is: the country i’d exiled myself.

amid the turbulence
is his gaze
his sensitivities and mind
and cellphone screen spilling

a little light on this room
that i call my time —
the only time i have
— to let him billow forth

2.
is this what they mean by
the womb of thought

the agony and cries
of parting flesh

soft girdle in which lies
the outraged entrails of events

3.
that day we met again
there were long, probing looks
looks that plunge unimpeded into the ultimate
secret place where he and i collapsed
into a heap of pent-up frustrations, joined disconnects,
unspoken emotions, as if,
as if we had been turned inside out

4.
i am quietly waiting for the
disaster of my mind to be
reconstructed and re-habitated and flourishing again

the city is tall and dusty and loud
in heat
trees and air of tension always escalating,
more hostile, not just filthy
not just hot

it is the longest day of the year
how would he like
to walk through the forest
down to the river with me

8 comments

  1. you are a sea where the word turns into affluents and deep and deep feelings, and poe le, the sea, fly over birds and dreams and the infinite desire of the river to reach these waters.

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    1. I don’t think anybody has written a poem in their comments to my posts. Until now.

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      1. I’m not a poet, I do not write like you, words escape me. but I did this exercise one day: feverish
        lost time
        but did not forget the rope

        feverish
        lost the rope
        within the hour, the bones

        feverish
        lost his voice
        inside the silence, the shards

        feverish
        lost bones

        Sorry if it was inconvenient and made you waste your time.

        Liked by 1 person

        1. That’s not true, Fernando, you are a real poet. There is hope shining within despair in every stanza. If I were better in my poetic forms, I would be able to tell you which type yours adopts. Thank you so much for sharing, Fer.

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        2. one day I may become a poet. You’re very kind, Vera. thank you so much!

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  2. “inside the shrapnel, the memory”…sorry, the last verse was missing.

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  3. Deeply, deeply beautiful.

    Liked by 1 person

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