LepidopteraA Poem by LR YoungTS Eliot wrote how april was the cruelest month,
a sanction of rain on dry earth, a thirsting growth. I am only a small collection of other letters, I would never live up to his holy shanti om shadows & expectations, but the sarcophagus in the king's chamber, lies ready for 90 degree walking ascensions the haiku & the right angle of the cherry blossom, the spring of my own awakening. My hands look different to me in this light, the lines of my life, the one I make with, & the one that hides the secret at the beginning, tie in-roads to the sleeping warrior, some Shangri-La, some Shambhala mountain top, where the vision beheld by my eyes is more than a salvatory mirroring, the lotus
in the palm of consorts, the cobra coiled at the root (the foot of a white elephant) cast in bands about your throat -- feel the salted heart beating there; I am protected only from myself
& my more Kafka moments,
metamorph-ing, but I am nothing like
a homoerotic entomologist's wet dream;
I was never one for overnight meta-sessions,
or reading Poe (if I hear of that raven
even one more time, I'll ... ) but then
the earliest light breaks through
the fiber of the morning, my cocoon
split like a lip, & saturating luminescent adulation, the first welling into the space between the warmth of whole things, suddenly transparent like the space between love & procreative efforts, it takes the company
of eleven or twelve for even one to enter.
© 2009 LR YoungAuthor's Note
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Added on December 5, 2009Last Updated on December 5, 2009 AuthorLR YoungBoulder, COAboutLR Young completed her Masters in Literature in Spring of 2009. Her current emphasis is poetry, the intimacy of words and string of consciousness revelations, rhythm and imagery. It is just as Ginsber.. more..Writing
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