natalia-st-lawrence
“Cloudy eyes watch a perfect world,” I said; a pithy description of my life thus far – for, each morning I wake to a blur of color; the shapes around me, objects and persons, seem entirely undefined – I emerge from bed the impressionist painter: forms, colors, or tones of an object are lightly and rapidly indicated. Blemishes are erased and the world is cleansed of detail; I only know the immediate aspect of character and of presence; the illumination of light. The brush strokes are short, and honest to the figurative; they capture essence, not physicality. I hold the world’s potential in this moment; I am the realist; I understand that things develop.
MUCH madness is divinest sense,
for the naturally inclined
toward the colorful; hence –
a world where matter lies
in erroneous order:
the nagging flies are,
stately kings – kings who fall
to reverence when,
the cavalcade of ignorant childs
whisper truths like
‘this one is mine’, in tones of such
finality they are proclaimed as law;
their confidence boundless and
raw with unabashed passion – while,
the worms remain unturned in beds,
mouthing silently unspoken poems.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
His large and clumsy fingers fumbled
with the clasp of a leather strap.
He fed it around my neck, then
twisted the red pendant that hung above my breast.
“It’s a bird caller.” He said,
as a pitchy squawk startled my ears.
He dropped it into my smaller hands
And I pinched the vessel
Finger and thumb, finger and thumb,
I too released the pent up call –
Each trill received an echo that answered from the trees,
I willed a conversation that started with the spring.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC