Sunday, April 3, 2011
the first poem
where were you when you penned that
you did not know to dare to think was
something in the fair shape of a
when did you decide it was one?
when did you look at it dead on,
with shaking hands, an
alright, here goes,
who was there to look you in the eye
after it was over and you felt like you
were lying across tracks, looking up
at the clouds, heavy, but with wings
lifting you past whatever silence
was it a good silence?
how did it feel to get up,
rubbing the gravel and dirt
from your palms and legs,
feeling the marks left in
the skin of your knees?
did you loose your lungs?
how does it feel to breathe, now,
thinking back on that time you
either relish or have blocked out
does that first poem write to you now,
over and over, begging you
to continue fighting, driving,
dreaming, wishing, lulling, loving
to death, to life, to fruition?
or do you write to
asking the poem
for a future,
when the book rests
and pages are
at the end of the evening,
what is the sound of