mankind before God.

for Janae.

 

 

 

Call it sheer, unmixed honesty

a celebration of evidence. I found

a LEGO left, stuck in a corner

the brick of a forlorn castle;

a moat and blooming horses,

a patient place for tea parties.

 

Gentle breezes, racks of strewn

firewood. All siglets of  times

excited ends. I heard the low groans

of blood being electromotive.

Pure as a time in the past.

 

April is the softest sing-along

to adorn in this colored tinge.

Cant you hear the blue ones,

the reds flying off?

 

Then drop like a chimney

with fatigue. The old gravestones say

of last judgments, "Well done

house builder. Well done".

Reviews

[Tree]

This piece, saturated with a heavy beautiful melancholy, was overwhelming. I like to read poetry that elicits emotion, forces me to reflect to feel deeper than before the read. Poetry that reminds me, that I am human I am a part of something bigger than myself. And that I am alive, and at the same time closer to my death than to my birth. This was one of those poems...

JDpaz

[WritersRankings]

I feel your default poem is the historical narrative, the plays on nostalgia and memory. But I could be wrong, I'd have to read more of these.

[emmajoy]

There are places, there are people, there are times, when nothing compares, nothing is better .. and for me, this poem blankets around that moment when nothing can create a more glorious comparison.

You write with sincerity and with the lightest touch.. this is beautiful.

'.. a patient place for tea parties. ~~ Gentle breezes, .. '

[Marie Anzalone]

We think we have it all in hand... we swear we will never speak of IT again. The horror, the deception of loss, the humiliation... the smugness of finality. Then... some tiny reminder. And then landslides start. Last judgments become first impressions, and we must be reborn into something with a shape that will not fill with time, but that remains fluid and lucid, a tightened bolt on meories with just enough space left over for just enough to slip out. And in the end... aren;t we all hoping to be housebuilders of one kind or another? I swear I sit here and stare my own mortality in the face every day and still I work patiently to build a house for children I will never have to live happily in during times I will never know. And that is precisely the sense I get reading you.

My dear, you do realize you are channeling, don't you?

[jacob erin-cilberto]

we build the houses that are our lives...most of the time pretty carefully but even then the bricks drop with fatigue....but even in the ruins, we find wonderful memories...
i needed to read you tonight i think...
glad i found this beautiful piece of imagery and metaphor...'
you are amazing, such texture.

jacob

[Horizon K.]

...a celebration of evidence...
That we once were children and let fantasies fly... Where a little brick piece can become a part of, anything... Kortas says, wistfulness, to describe this poem... how true. And I imagine just how I would feel, were I to find a Lego piece in the corner of my house, a decade, two decades from now, when my son is grown... And I will pine for moments long gone, hope the child inside can still be found... This brings tears to eyes, dana... Beautiful...

[W.k.kortas]

There is an unusually gentle touch to your wistfulness, and with it an almost lyrical quality which is a bit different than the normal run of your work. These are observations, and certainly not criticisms; this is wonderfully told stuff, and one hundred percent truth.