Assigning Sorrows

Mistakes and memories are
stuck in repeat.
I’m tired of the sound of them
rattling about in rusty cans-
sharp like ice against my teeth.
In these things
poets are the most human.

A vital fury compels me
to seek out rocks, trees, rushing water and sounds
of the pure things-
where poetry lives in
wild congregation on a riverbank.

Crows squawk black celebration as
thorns stick amongst
a tangle of blackberries,
reminding me that first is pain then
comes sweetness: sin, sorrow, redemption.
That is the way of things.

The river flows to a
holy place unseen
and I am Lethe, assigning sorrows
to the river keepers.

Like leaves caught in the rivers teeth
some are sent shivering and twisting
into the moss-woven cracks of ancient rocks.

Some are hastened away in the air current
cooled over rushing rapids-
others, scattered fodder to grackles as they
kick up parched leaves.
 
As the breath of sun warmed cedar
sinks fragrant oblivion down upon
rill and runnel, all is placid softness.
 
Once inside this swell of mellow intoxication
I climb the riverbank home, and fade
against the rural patterned
chair that haunts the dark corner of my library
allayed by the euphonious sound of nothing.

Reviews

[ChemicalMadness]

oh, I am going to enjoy reading you. you're quite talented. this is a brilliant piece. Loved "a vital fury compels me....." so true. I'm going to have to come back to this one to let it all sink in when I have more time. this is work that keeps revealing with each read....

CM

[Helen Warner]

Thank you! If everyone lived near a river there would be no need for therapy. ;-)