Meditations From the Center: 2
SUNDAY POEM
MEDITATIONS FROM THE CENTER: 2
In the center of my head is a rain-washed
dawning
In the center of my head cirrus
clouds cross a cobalt sky
In the center of my head a hermit thrush
sings sweet wilderness
In the center of my head a bare room
opens in the fragrance of your hands
In the center of my head is a mirror
in which your face is reflected
In the center of my head a wet beach
bears the footprints of your love
As always, I’d love to hear your poems, your voice, in the Comments. Come and share the songs of your heart.
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A response of sorts (aka more an inspired-by-this than a direct reply):
After the Floods
In a corner of my room, a rain-washed drawing
smudges its black and cobalt remains
like a bruise of feathers across the sticky
blank slate of loss, like the photos
I couldn’t save, their emulsions bleeding
echoes of fine Venetian endpapers
onto half-cent envelopes of holiday cards
from people themselves long evaporated
from everywhere except these mementos.
The more I stare, the more I am struck
by the splinter-thin blur
between grotesque wreckage
and beautiful ruin –
how a brown, crinkled scrap of a rose
can speak more of my worlds
than a dozen lush, satin-bright blooms
and how I want to be both
the history and the hope
a sweet mingling of dryness and dew.
How to be such
and not too much?
Next to the picture,
a pitcher:
tell me what to pour on your palm.
~ m
Mechaieh, thank you for this lovely poem.
“how a brown, crinkled scrap of a rose
can speak more of my worlds
than a dozen lush, satin-bright blooms
and how I want to be both
the history and the hope
a sweet mingling of dryness and dew.”
Oh, yes!