Today I
search for it again although
Yesterday
I found it, felt it, held it
In palms
sweaty, a result of his words
Spoken in
truth, a love poem of the
Soul
given to me, and it was then that
I
discovered, learned, was taught by his heart.
The day
before I heard it, my Father
Told me.
A man with a heart heavy gif-
ted his
daughter with what her spirit seeks.
Father
presented it, through knowledge of
My past,
our lineage and stories
Of
another, a lost one we mourn for.
A week
now gone was when I last spoke to
Her, an
encouraging woman miles
Away,
living alone today, resi-
ding by
the sea in a shack I call home.
A
foundation, my model of hard work,
Mother
she is, and she gave me it, what
I look
for today, low and high, here, there.
I am
hinted of where to peak for it,
Not a
challenging guess, not hard to think
Of, to
wonder. In eyes it remains still,
Prominent,
sure, and bouncing from lips it
Leaps.
You can see now, people hold it, tight.
My
Father, Mother, beloved Lover.
What is
IT? What is the fuel of life?
Of my
life? Some think love, others passion,
Maybe affection,
and yes these all too,
But their
base? That is the it, and that is
Happiness,
to be happy is to live.
________________________________
BY ROBERT
CREELEY
Yesterday I
wanted to
speak of it,
that sense above
the others to
me
important
because all
that I know
derives
from what it
teaches me.
Today, what is
it that
is finally so
helpless,
different,
despairs of its own
statement,
wants to
turn away,
endlessly
to turn away.
If the moon
did not ...
no, if you did
not
I wouldn’t
either, but
what would I
not
do, what
prevention, what
thing so
quickly stopped.
That is love
yesterday
or tomorrow,
not
now. Can I eat
what you give
me. I
have not
earned it. Must
I think of
everything
as earned. Now
love also
becomes a
reward so
remote from me
I have
only made it
with my mind.
Here is
tedium,
despair, a
painful
sense of
isolation and
whimsical if
pompous
self-regard.
But that image
is only of the
mind’s
vague
structure, vague to me
because it is
my own.
Love, what do
I think
to say. I
cannot say it.
What have you
become to ask,
what have I
made you into,
companion,
good company,
crossed legs
with skirt, or
soft body
under
the bones of
the bed.
Nothing says
anything
but that which
it wishes
would come
true, fears
what else
might happen in
some other
place, some
other time not
this one.
A voice in my
place, an
echo of that
only in yours.
Let me stumble
into
not the
confession but
the obsession
I begin with
now. For you
also (also)
some time
beyond place, or
place beyond
time, no
mind left to
say anything
at all,
that face
gone, now.
Into the
company of love
it all returns.
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