I used to know who you were, that was long ago.
Are you still that same person?

I’m not. but it’s ok, there is no need to pretend,
just because we knew each other once,
I think they were good times then.

Then was a time I only remember bits and pieces
of, I remember good things, though
I’m sure there were bad times also.

But the brain is fickle now, I’m sure it knows now
what it knew before, but now hides from conscious
thought, for reasons I do not know.

What was your name?


http://www.charlesdennispoetry.netne.net

© 2009 Charles Dennis

Thirteen thousand strides progress
Blind leathern tread with gritted teeth
Stride hard rough bracken heather strive
Incipient thought embrace the scarp
Bent shoulder strain web strap entrench
Sharp body lean oppose the wind
Slow pitch forward cold lash rain
Pause..Shrug pack .. Lurch on again

Rough rock scrape pass
Sharp edge hand scrape
Each tread ascend dull lactic ache
Stone eyes cast up
Embrace dark peak
Surge on .. Dig in..
Embrace the pain
Aggressive stance.. find strength begin
Engage the enemy entrenched within
With comrades in adversity

Side glance reveal
Grey brother tight
Mordant ploughshare gleaming bright
United thought strong purpose right
Grim grimace glower grinding on
Helping hand support and share
Exchang-ed glances sing the pain
Relentless climb advance distain
Strong ******* stride bogged into mire
Grappling cragfast handclasp dire  
Entropic  spirit brief despair
Revelatory cause unswayed
Each cloistered personal crusade
Burst upwards into sunlight flame

And stand with vision intertwined
Each grim companion lasting friend
Eyes meet brief recognition shout
We know what it’s all about

These clasping minds
Empath embrace
Profound cognitive self aware
To follow where few others dare
These comrades in adversity

A pendulum swings the same way
Today as it did yesterday.
No snap of the fingers
Can change what lingers
So deadly repeatedly.
Day after day after day,
My eyes open the exact same way,
And time’s in a knot
With or without delay,
Everything drags;
Gut wrenching, teeth grinding, fist clenching
And drags some more.
Day after day after day.

533

Two butterflies went out at Noon—
And waltzed upon a Farm—
Then stepped straight through the Firmament
And rested, on a Beam—

And then—together bore away
Upon a shining Sea—
Though never yet, in any Port—
Their coming, mentioned—be—

If spoken by the distant Bird—
If met in Ether Sea
By Frigate, or by Merchantman—
No notice—was—to me—

Hey, flower!
How come you have to come along
and disturb my state of mind?
Confusion, unrest, and the like.
What a manipulator you are!
Winking at me with soft petals
and subtle hints of sunshine.

Brilliant and bold
in your gentle composure...
Pastel petals as delicate as butterfly wings
Yet strong enough to make a statement
like a captain in command

I just don't think you are fair
For you just gave me a jolt
And I was having a
perfectly miserable day
until you came along.

How rare it is that any collection of people
In any numbers
Should breathe as one

Perhaps a mother as she births
Her first
Or last born

Maybe when one saves a brother
As they fight back
To back in war

Sometimes, when man and woman
Make love for the first or last
Or 44th time

But these events and moments
Are rare unto themselves, not
Synonymous with a unified breath

But on this day, I saw
Two million people and then some
Breath in and out,

The sweet air of hope
In a cry of “YES”
An exclamation “ WE”

And in complete unity,
Harmony, and accord
They said “CAN”

And those in the dark
Who think they can not
We will band together

As a living memory
To the era of reconstruction,
To the new deal

For though we are the weak
The tired
And the meager

We have always welcomed those
And we will
Inherit the earth

We will go
From ashes,
To monuments

Golden pulse grew on the shore,
Ferns along the hill,
And the red cliff roses bore
Bees to drink their fill;

Bees that from the meadows bring
Wine of melilot,
Honey-sups on golden wing
To the garden grot.

But to me, neglected flower,
Phaon will not see,
Passion brings no crowning hour,
Honey nor the bee.

notice the convulsed orange inch of moon
perching on this silver minute of evening.

We’ll choose the way to the forest—no offense
to you,white town whose spires softly dare.
Will take the houseless wisping rune
of road lazily carved on sharpening air.

Fields lying miraculous in violent silence

fill with microscopic whithering
…(that’s the Black People, chérie,
who live under stones.) Don’t be afraid

and we will pass the simple ugliness
of exact tombs,where a large road crosses
and all the people are minutely dead.

Then you will slowly kiss me

360

Death sets a Thing significant
The Eye had hurried by
Except a perished Creature
Entreat us tenderly

To ponder little Workmanships
In Crayon, or in Wool,
With “This was last Her fingers did”—
Industrious until—

The Thimble weighed too heavy—
The stitches stopped—by themselves—
And then ’twas put among the Dust
Upon the Closet shelves—

A Book I have—a friend gave—
Whose Pencil—here and there—
Had notched the place that pleased Him—
At Rest—His fingers are—

Now—when I read—I read not—
For interrupting Tears—
Obliterate the Etchings
Too Costly for Repairs.