Archives for posts with tag: sonnet

the essence of prayer

the essence of prayer is not what is sung
the song that is sung, dances on tongue, begins
and begun is done and undone, the essence
of prayer is the breath of what is sung

the draw and expel from throat, heart, lung,
the coil of what is and what remains to be done,
the beginning is always what is yet undone; the
essence of prayer is the breath that is sung

heart binds blood to lung as stars are blind to the sun
the song is not the beginning nor what is sung
we mount this ladder rung by rung; the essence
of prayer is that which binds breath to lung

in our singing our melody remains undone without you
but the essence of prayer is the breath that is sung
<I would like to thank everyone who follows this blog for your interest and support. It has been a year of revisiting the past with my Peterborough Poet Brothers & Sisters, and a year of recharging. Your interest, comments, likes, shares, truly do keep me going. This is one of my new poems. There will be more to come in the New Year! My your spirit be bright. — wm>


you got me going with that thing you do
there ain’t nothing I wouldn’t do
you say I’ve been democratically selected
I tell you I don’t need Viagra to get elected

I’ll be your fence post when you need to fence
I’ll be your shotgun for self defence
I’ll put the sugar in your soda pop
Oh please baby don’t you ever stop

I need you like my car needs the road but
the cops would give me a ticket for overload
you got me going like a house on fire
you make me whole, I’m a real live wire

you got me tingling from my head to my toes
oh tell me Mama there’s more beneath those clothes

That the world moves, the moon still visible,
dawn mist rises from still lake waters does
not matter to the swimmer. She swims
surrounded by the gold of sun’s first light.

In the spotlight, her place alone,
the displacement of her passage,
marked by the V of her wake, adorned
with gold ripples on her lake, attends her.

Soon there will be boats, jet-boats towing
skiers, children on rafts who will fly by giggling.
Canoes, sail-boats, pontoon boats, bathers, paddlers —
there will be rivers of gold across the lake —

but now, alone with the Sun, lake steams still cold,
she swims in glory and she swims in gold.

Stars must be charted from the surface of the water
whose qualities and characteristics most become the ether.
The diamonds of each ripple are equal in increment
to the imagination necessary to filing and describing
constellations as they appear before you. Heaven’s
girdle marks the phosphorescent path we navigate,
polarized scales of fish trace the path of shining waters
pouring upon the ocean, pouring onto the plain, the full gallop
of the panoply of all that seek to run, flame upon the
surface, oil aburst with the glory of its consumption,
earth shattering cataclysms that make chasms and canyons,
that separate now from forever in a book written in shale.

Our passage scribes a shattering of new space where we
reflect, undistorted, each star’s place — endlessly.

the line reels in the poem
that is not yet poetic
the coloured blocks make a sentence
as the letters fall apart
the knitting of finger slips
and twines the tendon that hinges the bone
repeat the meaning twice
the motion with your hands says I told you so

I would not be so certain I lived before
except I have an exceptional number of
problems to work out—and it occurs to me
nothing happens without a reason—someone
must be doing this to me.

It’s not that I cannot make sense out of it, it’s just its expression
continues to confound my friends, aid my enemies, and makes
my mother cry. That she can make sense of what I am saying
only makes me worry she loves me too much—I’ve no message of love,
no poem, not even a song, more like a howl, a sob, a bad birth,
perhaps that’s why she understands. But she understands
it as if it happened, and I think it’s still happ’nin’; if I could only
convince you I am thinking about this right now.

I’m convinced I must keep expressing myself,
even if I cannot express myself.
Speaking, I bring my arguments to life,
my reason speechless, speeson reachless, season ‘r’ peechless.
The forms still exist, I resonate and explode the sonnet.
The signs I erect are just that—erections, signs, fingers pointing,
you provide the landscape. It’s shared.
Struggling in the dark, I set the fuse,
imagine you listen, aflame.

%d bloggers like this: