Glopowrimo #30

Glopowrimo #30

Minimalist poem, influenced by gesture drawings

Unknown to her, where'er (s)he is
Her picture hangs upon the wall
Her eyes follow him, up and down
She couldn't care less, where (s)he is.

Glopowrimo 29-2

Meditation 2

To myself I asked today the question long unasked
Why do we write, and read poetry?
As if I had forgotten my own face, or become blind
How it looked now, and needed a mirror or someone else to describe
My face, to myself, again to see.

Years fell away, and I became young again
Reading Coventry Patmore's "The Toys"
Whoso readeth this touches not just its words
Or a poem, but a man, a father, God and life
And children and their kinship to parents, mortal and immortal!

Years later, I still read and write
Poetry with a hunger that's insatiable
For the same reason, to connect thus, totally, with others
And hope they feel as connected to my words

It's expressing and communicating
Our deepest selves to each other
For in life, we see through the glass, darkly
But in poetry we sometimes see as we are seen
Know as we are known

As: at the Second Coming, when we see Him as He is
Our transformation's evident, to what degree we attained
And no secret is hid, and everything is revealed

Glopowrimo #29

Meditation

A small child once wanted to know
Why the lake was so blue
It's reflecting the sky, you know
As someone had once told you

One day, the lake was green
The child then wondered why
Under the deep blue sky
Why it was so, had changed

Under the lake, foliage had grown
When he looked in he saw it wave
Lush green weeds, long-leaved like snakes
Sprung from cement-silt and debris

The lake's surface still rippled,
And glittered when ruffled
Reflecting the sun
And his wavy face

The sky was still blue with white, white clouds
Edged with silver or black
But on the face of the lake, the blue took a hue
Yellow or golden, now weeds had a say

He watched the weeds choke the lake
The water change colour to a faecal brown
Slowly the fishes turned upside down, dead
The sky alone still remained blue

Sickened by all that had been
And had come to pass, he did dream
Of leaning over a lake in the night
With the moon and the stars come out, bright
The water was black and cold as ice
Nothing stirred on its back
He missed the ripples and waves
He could dream it all back again
There was a breeze in his dream
Light as a feather's touch
The fishes swam inside the lake
Lit up by phosphorescence
And he knew that the water was sweet
That if he leaned down and drank from it
It would be to thirst, its lack.
He dreamed it would come, not to pass.