how

how

i.

what if I’d been sleeping easter, like a clock unwound,
all beliefs washed from stones, then with breath awoke
once more, what would I see?  what would I say?

this room isn’t bare.  someone lives in here.

ii.

a broken balsa wood glider plane.  sitting on the front door threshold of our old
family house, a great gasp of wooden frame, then heard something crunch, it was the model plane that sat too close to me, crushed ruined destroyed, made flat.
I cried.

I have believed in pain, in regret.  these being things that live past the moment of their own time, and because I carry them, or like measured glue, they are a part of who we pretend, a person where things break.  meaning I am broken too.
that’s the myth, the lie of doing me.

I see tall blue.  I see horizon’s line.  neither ever ends.  good heart that seems to imply.  yet translations still lie to me.

I believe in atoms, in molecules, in chemistry, electricity, even though I can see nothing of them I understand.  but still, seems like a good idea.  just don’t get too attached.  things change, then change again.
I could be wrong.

iii.

here’s the dope.  a perfect party, god in heaven, pie’s in the oven and stars shimmer above seas of doubt but on the whole it all resolves into a big wide grin, all except one dire spot.  in all the universe, exception’s rule, Houdini-like, crow’s feet on the wire standing aghast of every breath of gravity.  one dull spot immune from right, a regular blight but being polite.
damn!

here’s the thing.  when you’re naked in the morning, who’s gonna love you then?
when the oatmeal still isn’t made.  when all your flaws are on the plate, old dishrags you kept, just because you remember when.  will a smile score the dawn?

here’s the twist.  shyness is a lie.  pretense to dominate from across the room, sight unseen!  yet every boat leaves a wake no matter how brief.
fish come following bait.

iv.

yet full to the brim, I won’t tolerate, can’t stand any measure of angst.  not in what I read, but even more to point, in what I allow my pen to collect.  there’s some thunder, some lightning in that I suppose because there is some angst within.

I’m not nice to it, not even polite!

but see, oh can you see, how could you miss?  the sizzle of drama just trying my lips to shape the word – no – you’re not welcome to settle in here.
be on your way. blessings pressed on lips.

v.

see the clouds dressed in fish.  collaborate unspoken fins.
two thoughts like ropes calculate then define perspective miles.

vi.

seven days to make a world.
three fingers more than necessary.

just a splash on the wall of thought, one drop of blood becoming diffuse.
the river starts, life begins.  yet was there when nothing had nothing to say.

a poem that desires faith.

vii.

what if I was born as a bear?  ate my meals with teeth and paws tearing ripping rending apart delicious bleeding heart warm on the tongue eating fire.  not every day but so often as possible.  more miles to pace.

does anyone of us dream of being born as food?  what’s that suggest to you?

what will I be?

neil reid © june 2011

commentary:
Draft or drafty, I’m not sure. Like something that wants to be much more than it yet is. But, so be it. And a play given rein to be more of nature a prose poem. So be it too. Beliefs, that’s some task to take a looking at, and here, only bare begun, just bones this far. Important in knowing how to get across a busy street, but otherwise held lightly, as they are and not more. I’ll take this one as a first shot across the bow. Ripe for revisiting!

Say! Do doubts count towards beliefs? I got those too!