jubilee

a luv poem

 

 

 

   Tru.

   Hand in hand

   and given the choice,

   the beacon chooses

   exposure

   over mystery.

   The wind,

   nefarious,

   blowing past

   broken street lights,

   can itself,

   write poems.

   Poets are only

   necessary, in

   the new land,

   to flake away

   the pain of

   judgment and

   to lean forward

   with their newness

   in the gale.

 

 

   My mother, who has

   NEVER known

   what it's like

   to be unafraid,

   calls dry, maturity

   and healed, the

   provoking of

   demons. Who

   thinks that

   warm hugs and

   forehead kisses are

   the same as radiation;

   chemo mopping

   up the foot

   or the liver

   from it's pool.

 

   who knew; the

   precious is the relinquishment

   of war.

 

 

   When the air is clear

   and lovers can be estimated

   by their sway (or)

   the surplus of their

   sparkle is the spell of

   respiration, hold to

   this regard:

 

   Mighty one,

   absolve us of the shore.

Reviews

[Emily B]

this is the sort of poem that should be read and read often by poets all over creation, just saying

[Emily B]

someone told me once that i lacked something, god wouldn't hear my prayers, but somehow, i have to believe that poets prayers travel high enough, that in the end we will be heard