defying the gravity of theme

defying the gravity of theme

 

 

 

a tiny slant of rhyme

shades the sun of my words

as they shelter under

a giant oak binding

 

pages of bark indulgence

you knew me before 

when my pen was just an acorn

stretching toward the sky

like a baby bird that fell from its nest

 

now in my autumn

i rake my syllables

into a pile

and burn them with the same fire

that burned in my chest

when i was writing like hell

was removing itself from the stack

of empty pages 

at which i stared with the matches

poised

 

the blank or the filled

which pages would sacrifice themselves

for my art?

 

most of those baby birds never survived

but i still write

and imagine it really is art.

 

 

erin-cilberto

11/4/23

Reviews

[Julie McCarthy (juliesp..]

Loved it Jacob especially the last verse says it all doesn’t it
Quote
most of those baby birds never survived
but i still write
and imagine it really is art.

Fantastic

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you, Julie,
j.

[Chris Shaw]

Out of acorns grow mighty oaks. I think all writers hope that their little acorns will take root and grow, spreading their roots for years to come. Heart of oaks, that’s what poets need when it comes to their work. On Lynch island there is an oak which was planted during the civil war. Its trunk is now five times the width of my outstretched arms. I love to embrace it. Your poetry will be embraced long after your demise dear J.

Chris

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Love the story of the oak, Chris...Thank you for your words,
j.

[M]

This speaks to me of writing as a life long love, grown from an acorn youth to a giant oak in your elder years. Many poems written, many poems fallen like Autumn leaves and others still burned as sacrifices for the art. I think we are never truly sure how significant or otherwise our writing really is. We just keep writing and filling those blank pages and hoping that someday all our words are deemed valuable and worthwhile. I never view writing as an art, though. More a craft that one develops and molds into sculptured words that we hope are appreciated and understood. A most interesting write and perception of the worth of your own poetry.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I feel we are artists who paint, but with words, with pen, rather than brush.
I appreciate your words here, Makhabat.
j.

[Patricia Wedel]

dearest Jacob... you have touched my Heart when you speak of the Acorn. When my Son Robertwas born we lived in Washington Grove, Maryland ... where most of the Trees were Great Old Oak trees. Many Acorns fell and became a Strong Fortress to this day. My Son is now 52 and has grown to be strong as he and Leilani raise their two daughters. Be blessed with the Faith of a mustard seed. Amen... Pat

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Except for that one cherry tree?
Thank you for sharing this, Pat,
j.

[Patricia Wedel]

I wish I could mature as well as our two Cherry trees have natured in Five years. Looking forward to Cherry Pies. P.

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Another metaphor nailed to the page with precision. The reflection and melancholy is palpable as the poet sees time's passage slip away but recognises many ideas/poem were binned along the way.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

someone should nail me to the wall for passing what I write off as poetry...but thank you for your words, John,
j.