A Cargo of Green Hearts
~POEMS~
I wish I could take your sad
head in both hands and plant it in the ground next to the wildflowers that do not toil or spin and beneath the moon where the night-things move about in their night-clothes of furs rearranging things, reshaping the earth while the human race shuffles along on its blind mission and your head now brown and dirty as a coconut, beautiful as a fat acorn there in the groin-warm earth would take its time under the moon and sun and the stars that mark the little fires of the sky-people who are blessing you, us who are praying to your head there in the earth, who are sending angels in the shape of moths with limited but tender vocabularies each one repeating, Peace to your beautiful face, Peace to your beautiful face. this poem
is to say goodnight as you are carried through the wall of sleep to where the owl zips himself into his tuxedo of sculptured air the coyote unpacks her symphony of bent flutes and the pirate moon fits its horn to dredge the treetops. here, too, you ready yourself: naked as an apple prepare, perhaps by keying a secret sequence of stars; by launching a kiss in a paper boat; or by whispering, now before it is too late one thing more than your breath or survival that gives you the right to say "I was alive." enough! stop your counting; the manyfaced moon is still widening her lovely chin to you and away; the sea still stretches toward the shore with long kind arms as if to offer something you barely recall having lost then withdrawing; and the birds, which winter has gouged out of autumn's piñata will return to lift your sagging heart on antiphonic strings only to abandon you to deafness. this happens every year; everything happens every year, but don't be blinded by time and its iron numerals. there are no beginnings or endings, no lines or cardinal directions, and clocks—those desperate inventions, symbols for madness in worlds kinder than this one—can't be trusted; a caterpillar does not become a butterfly, it is born a bud blossoming into wings, a collage of thoughts aching into a love story, a tongue scrolling out into a future tuliped kiss. you, too are not a collection of resolutions, thresholds: you are the thing itself happening to itself, the sea in mudrā unfurled on the shore like a collapsing child then rising to catch the sun like a ball again, again lifting the flaming ball high drawing it westerly into the sea, again like so, like so! it is true, lover: the universe adores the whoosh of breath the whump of heartbeat but no one stops to count such things without being turned from the path and burned then drowned. all rest. let all things
stop: the train, its wheels frozen upon the track the conductor pulling off his cap to scratch his bald head, the passengers wondering is this my place? where is the color of my home? the clouds locked in the sky, so still you could unravel one woolly thread by woolly thread, each drop of rain dangling like an earring, all the plants with their invisible mouths open. your thoughts, too, thudding like a gigantic clock all this time suddenly cease. don't panic. find the zipper. step a toe then your whole foot out of yourself. no one but your frowns will miss you. the ocean is hard as crystal, the fish sleepy in their deep beds. walk out wearing your best Jesus face. rest here, something says; come here anytime you like. some days you find yourself
wrestling mannequins, strangling railings burying your head in crates of nails cursing the thud of your own sad heart. please stop. there is no time like now to duck under the backyard maple & count the veins on its always-spread palms, to cup your hands in the water of someone's voice, to indulge deep in the molasses of the very air. it's all a matter of perspective; darkness is only visible when your head is full as a box of old newspaper. burn the news. end this war. let the black script cease. feel the sun hollow you out & fill you with its innumerable flaming lanterns.
Friend, keep breathing even if you are underwater. the sea is cruel only to those with clenched jaws and fists. release the anchor. place your weeping cheek upon the pillowed waves. the sea needs your tears in order to go on being its salty self, so don't hold back. your suffering is a gift to this world a current upon which both fish and dreams travel. |
Poetry LogPoems are posted here when I'm ready to share them. I often don't title my poems. The date you see above the poem may be the date it was posted here and not necessarily the date it was created. To see more, click on the Archives below. Archives
January 2020
CategoriesUnless otherwise noted, all content ©Paul-William Gagnon, Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-NoDerivs license.
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