Posts Tagged ‘leaves’

Tell me what this poem is saying to you

What’s the message do you think?  When leaves
turn autumn bright, fall to an upturned bowl.

Is it fall or flight?

Memories of quenching rain and radiance,
brilliant sap twisting buds and

here, disembodied snow become earthly
fruit, another language feeding roots.

Not all bowls are right being right-side up.

Here’s this phrase, Grandmother made a mistake.
Now, how’d that glyph land inside of you?

Language is immediate.  Either side of that
synapse, swift limb to lace of root.

Stories move like water does.

How far can a voice imagine itself?
Tell me what this poem is saying to you.

Do your fingers trace the words?
Do your lips trace the sounds?

No sense of feeling goes idyl here.
When buddha hand touched the earth

compassion became a bell.

Here’s the rake.  Here’s the dust for your shoes.
Make affection of these leaves.

Tell me what this poem is saying to you.


neil reid © january 2013

This poem began before the prompt, but seemed mostly well enough to be companion to the prompt. Rather “drafty” as it doesn’t go really where the initial image wanted to go, but maybe another day. (busy head thinks too much) (listens less) But doesn’t that actually seem the hardest gradient writing… getting myself out of the way? Does to me. (OR, one might ask… Where’s Waldo?!!)

Written for the We Write Poems prompt #135,  Peas in a pod.  Write a poem from a gathering of “ideas”.

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A rake and leaves

A rake and leaves

Abstraction is why I ask, keep simple

words with me.

A bear, a fish, alone a creek in wildness

no one sees.

Crayon to palm expressed like milk

as a child sees.

More better unruled hand, only stray

wind drives.

Honey sun, lain like drying fruit, and

overnight the moon.

Sketches resemble hair because

your hand was there.

Like thoughts, like leaves, curled into

autumn prayers.

None need my gaze to seal, sanctify

spiraled smoke.

Burn those paintings, concealment

eased by flame.

That pile smolders in the backyard

and man-with-rake-attends.

Too many words to keep. Let sky

eat another meal, ours.

We’ll grow some thin, stand

on the edge of smoke.


Neil Reid © February 2010

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