Is that my voice?

If you’re a follower, and have been for a while, I hope you are noticing with me, in delight and irony, the slow emerging of a poetic voice that I will one day become distinct to my person. Delightful because I like it. Lots and lots! And lots! I find it simple and fun, childish, hopeful, like following a ribbon with your hands…only if successful. Ironic because what I usually read is the highly European and philosophically minded modern poets who remain, still to this day, as elusive and ambiguous as ever.
How odd.
Hey, I hope you enjoy these prayers.
Holy Homecoming
In one field, in one nowhere
Close to where you are,
I am searching with my questions
A sky losing is its speech
And growing calmly darker.
I am wondering
At the switch which brings
The stars into existence.
What pull of a rope
Or a chain, or a reversing
Of some thing I cant see
Which brings light 
Into the nighttime.
And from up above?
What of looking down 
And seeing the flicker
Of porch lights welcoming
Home wives, husbands
And children from late buses;
Dim answers growing in the dark
Like stars on a landscape
Only seen from looking
Downward from above.
When In the City
This light glancing back at me
From the ruffles being recycled;
Each waterfall, falling into the next
Like seasons, each one new
As the next breath I take, 
Wondering how such a thing
Got here. By chance, lucky grace,
Or a city mandate, demanding 
In these skyscraper settings
Which mock the redwoods,
More beauty to retreat too. 
And so, this fountain , pretending 
To be a waterfall, says to me,
I am from another mind.
You found me elsewhere 
And brought me here 
To restore your concrete
To its first wildness.
On Enduring
This morning I turned
In my resignation 
To a world unfit
For living in;
One in which I
Do not fit myself.
With all the pain,
So boring, and redundant;
Death in every way, 
As belabored as trying
To fall asleep
With too much
Inside your head.
And so, I am  resigning 
From that interior
Dark, with its constricting
Shadows, and stepping
Outside, to meet myself,
In the broadening
Mountainscape, where 
Wings are not required
For the necessary flight
Asking your company
Each and endless day.
So, tomorrow,
 in the same way,
With two new hands,
Rainbow feathered 
And capable of turning
The air into a whirlwind
Of color all around me,
 I will close my eyes
And do it again.
I welcome your thoughts!

One response to “Is that my voice?

  • Vicke Thrower

    It is not even so much the exact words, but the way they drip and slide and end up making you feel the poem as much as hear it in your mind’s ear that I find compellingly sensual. You capture essence with a solidly fluid touch; I love your poetic voice. The voice is distinctly you, which makes it delightfully ironic. Thank you for your discipline in letting your words come out to play – I like feeling them.

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