A wish, a promise, waiting to be known.
I want a book of pages made from grass,
Our times together and apart, poems
Of each word and moment - Future, Present, Past.
I want to pass from earth to air, finally,
You to be the spark lights the fire under me.
I want to be that improvised device, a Book,
On a random evening, burning to your touch,
Experiencing actually that poetry IS the ash of Life.
To be blown away like so much vowel dust.
I want to pass from earth to air, finally
Choose at last the poet's path of fatality.
What can time mean to a measured man?
It means this, these lines laid down like stone,
Dry rock-walls mapping out a sort of plan,
Do not make fields where the poet can make a home,
It means these words will never last,
These words can hold nothing back.
Glowing brighter on the page, but less clear,
Words like pennies are not wishes to come true,
Words are moments of loving, laughter and tears.
Poetry is not the poet, it is You!
A wish, a promise, these are yours to own.
The poetry of Love is the burning of your stone.
Tommy Randell – 8th February 2017.
A follow-up (of sorts) to 'What can time mean to a measured man?' (qv)
“Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.”Leonard Cohen