Seethed into matter

It is not a benevolent voice that seethes me,

that plays into spindles where I lay

inventing the colors of my predawn scape,

my hands, my sleepless lap that numbs in an unspoken compulsion

 

It is not the god inside nor the undetermined die

all reckless, all consumed

all sounds of matter belonging to their end

in the chants soon to draw us visible

 

Each minute scatters as if a colony mad with ants

burning on the scope of this poor fuddled dune

where wine into wine revives, wave after wave

releasing onto the infernal strand

 

It is here I am seethed with sense and stake

tangled in my own resolutions

the seduction that implores me with

the coming breakers of light

tossing at the sea, all anchors still within reach

all of me upon this coming end must shatter

once the terror begins

Reviews

[barleygirl]

The title of your powerfully turbulent poem is striking & memorable . . . both the title & the poem conjure up the way we can often create our own trouble by fomenting on a thing. Case in point: corona virus . . . seems to have been fomented into a huge economical melee with panic buying, etc. I realize you poem is about feeling toward another person, also something that we foment about, possibly creating a maelstrom of lingering angst! Love how intensely expressive your word choices are (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[jacob erin-cilberto]

reminds me of many nights i had long ago, when i prayed for dawn to stay away....didn't want to face the new day...safer within the womb of my bed.
j.

[Perdition]

That instant sun she do love to laugh don't she...then ya just add insomnia and pen and let the good times begin...lol. Thanks J.