Glass pipes

Awkwardness filled the space, I sat gazing in

as the outsider.     I fell distant in vague meditation

listening to them talk in splintered octaves

about all the gifts they planned to give you, next time

they were around, or placing value in their

disguised intentions,  slyly seeking recognition to the plated trinkets

tarnishing beneath the shine that lay before you as offering.

 

You sit like a quiet Buddha, incense trails all around you,

 an electrical hum softly chanting in the background. 

 

They wait for enlightenment.  They stretch

casually, yawning in exhausted waves of frustration.  They pulse at

your every movement, disorganized, selfish and insecure.

They sculpt the awkward tension with bare hands.  They divide the room,

fragmenting senses bit by blown glass blistered bit

until the conversation becomes mosaic. 

 

I sense contentment derailed,  a new day

has approached, leaving me to walk blindly

into the sun bleached afternoon while you remain

inside, behind shades of perception existing

against nature.

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[there is no more from m..]

A Grate Poem :)

[Kenny L. Mitchell]

Very smooth. Hmm...your poetry reads like letters from someone profoundly deep in thought. Almost a meditative state that threatens to explode in lyrical context. I think you are opening like a rare & exquisite flower on this one. Very good!

[Emily B]

so many lessons to be learned, sometimes we want to shout them from the rooftops . . . it's so hard sometimes not to notice the progress of those around us.

[Ed Hart]

don't leave any of 'em standing... I want to see bodies everywhere...