Kite Strings

Tonight, clouds are flown across the sky

on kite strings spun of tenuous hopes;

wound on the spools of the anxiety we

all felt last year. The clouds become

frosted glass windows- through them

the Wolf Moon illuminates shapes,

and shadows, but not colors or details.

We can only discern how 12 months might

feel: we cannot clearly see them.

 

How does April feel, when new things

awaken to reclaim lost opportunities

and missed chances? Will I be important

to you in June? Will bombs fall in August?

Will the wheat harvest come

to the world on time,

in November?

 

I am an imperfect application, too.

I do not always tell the truth.

I often have the orgasm only after

my lover has dressed and kissed me goodbye;

exiting the door and taking with him all

of the questions I have not yet asked, and

those he may never answer.

 

I tell people I love the silence when what

captivates me is the cacophony

of birdsong every morning.

 

I pretend to be hopeful but I fear something

about every upcoming month. Especially

those bombs, that may rob my world

of both birdsong and orgasms.

 

I pretend to dislike the same movies you do.

I praise the art of the person I do not trust

to be authentic. I tell the world you are just

a friend, an associate, someone with whom

I happen to share a few

nonthreatening interests.

 

I say I am fine alone in my solitude

with my fears in this beautiful fractured

landscape with the racing clouds. What I do

not say is how much I wish that someone like you

will invite me out to play, to fly kites in your

own lonely space some night. And then dream

my hope and me back into a love story

of Himalayan proportions. Each crag, crevice,

and triumph visible to eyes and hands and hearts

that feel best through frosted glass

in the dark. 

Reviews

[Mari' Emeraude]

This poem emphasises the sometimes teetering emotions I have within myself about some of life's offerings. For instance, like you, being fine in my solitude. I ask myself sometimes "is this really what I want or is it a cry for someone to invite me to something better?"

[Emily B]

You write my heart. Even when my own words are frozen in my chest. I am so glad to be here and reading your words.

[emmajoy]

'Will I be important ~ to you in June? Will bombs fall in August? ~ Will the wheat harvest come ~ to the world on time, ~ in November?'

Read your post three times - the third time very slowly and aloud. Wish i could have heard your voice, your pauses, gasps, stresses and perhaps, sobs.

For me this holds the most beautiful passion wrapped in the saddest of doubt and separation as enemies. Yet, you use glorious phrasing about life gathering pace within the seasons, with them, the need, the calling for more of what seems vital to you, the brilliant thinker.. lonely.. perhaps in spite of your being there.. in a place that loves you at the same time you suffer from and within it.. perhaps. Such an emotional write yet concise thoguths expressed in your own special style.

'.. in this beautiful fractured ~ landscape with the racing clouds. What I do ~ not say is how much I wish that someone like you ~ will invite me out to play, to fly kites in your ~ own lonely space some night... '.

Sigh, dear you... many sighs.