consuming ache
the mid-century body
chafes at the discipline
of the long-forgotten dance
two steps forward
one back
sidestep, duck, weave…
while mental fibers
desperately clench
clinging by fingernails
to a world of the mind
hard-won and cherished
fading…
dwindling…
that prison, womb, sanctuary
holy place of silence, solace,
and finally rebirth
no turning back
there to here
then to now
healing to healed
must fantasy die
by reality’s sword
must one door close
for another to open
goodbye to words
and art and abstract
buried under concrete rubble
About Me
- Lisa :-]
- Incredulous semi-centenarian, tilting the hourglass to keep the years from sifting through ever more swiftly… Let’s see, what century is this? Relocated from Chicagoland to the Pacific Northwest twenty years ago, because you don't have to shovel rain. I can’t NOT write. But words that no one reads are like the tree that falls in the woods. And so I’ve pitched a tent on this blogging beach, where I load my messages into little bottles, cork them and heave them into the surf. And wait…
2 comments:
I like this, especially: no turning back, there to here, then to now, healing to healed. Healing to healed...that's a very good thing.
Judi
I don't think Lisa the restauranteur needs to bury neiher Lisa the artiste nor Lisa the activist.
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