Where Are You?

Where Are You?

 

I cannot stop thinking of clams, raw,

and oysters, raw..and sex,

laid out like gray pajamas waiting

for the half shell to kick in

I cannot stop thinking of pink thumbs,

teddies, the warm stench of bodies,

candles, tin roofs of rain

I cannot walk in the mornings

without seeing a blue vapor rising

on the mountains, the morning glories,

main street with five steeples

and a multitude of beliefs chanting

from each church

Later the dusk, in a dark daze,

with muffled traffic and the hint

of waterdrops and density,

and yes! everything bothers me.

Everything is a continuation

of delicacy and consciousness

until the moon rises in a stamp

of masculine authority

and the stars find their places

blindfolded.

And where are you?

Where is the possibility

of your compassion and personality.

Where has the psychoanalysis of death

taken your essence & tone

What is the meaning of your

uncharacteristic behavior,

leaving me here,

alone?

Reviews

[holly]

This poem reads like a modern-day Sappho, whose lyricism speaks so beautifully of loss. This has the same quality of honest yearning and a resignation that has nothing to do with giving up. Your poems almost always have that quality of instant recognition for me. And I love the way you put your words together.

[Emily B]

It's such a little question that we use it in children's games. Where are you? Modern technology has all kinds of new-fangled gadgetry to tell us where we are and where we're going. There are 'how-to books', like the Bible, that endeavor to help us find our way. It's such a simple question, yet we still never seem to have a good answer.

[W.k.kortas]

The alternate title for this piece should be 'Life, The Poem." Because this more or less sums it up to a great extent.