Forest inquires:

How do you decide, choose your design, find its guise,
give it a face, surrender to the poem's own
vanity,
        and choose the poem's alignment?


                                                  an­ answer forms:

this alignment idea,
you think it simple,
everybody understands
what your inquiry means

alignment -  the appropriate relative position

we live in relative position to each other, our poems too, for they are but written synapses of our close captioned interactions, seemingly random, but assuredly not, as we invest in ourselves, seeking the mysterious appropriate answer
                                                                ­                        from the Theory of Poetic Relativity

                                                   ­             i love your question;                              hold it to my nostrils,          
                                             ­             smell the coffee aroma wake up blast inherent;
                                                                ­      
 kiss its robust childlike cheeks for the simple   soulfulness essential arousal;
for you see sir you have found
the appropriate position that relates us, our mindful words;

                                 answer no good, wholly insufficient?
                                        perfect.
                          as i close this quick cooked to perfection laboratory solution, take note

                              
                            ­                        the earth has moved
                                our hearts have beaten a measly thousand times
                                    time and space have appropriated our prior
                                          
relativity

when you return years hence this poem's shape will perforce have moved. for words are weathered flux constant and yet inherently unchanged except for the part of us that changes with every re-reading  

and what was


right before has left and the center has moved again

Nat,

This is probably just an insane thing of mine, but I cannot stand the center aligned formatted poetry. I want to read the poetry, but why center? I want to know why it is center aligned? If it is a metaphor for how poetry could/should serve as a balancing point, a countervailing force for a point, perhaps I could understand...but so many poems center aligned, I don't know, I am probably missing something.

A right aligned poem? Perhaps I could understand, if the content was asking me to revolt, to revolutionize, to counter the status quo. But a centered poem? What does the alignment mean?

anyway, it has been a long time since I've been around, keep writing, hope you are well.

-forest

~~<♢>~~

graves are attractive
to the living who choose a
dark place on earth

they house the dead who are left
without any alternatives


SoulSurvivor
(C) 9/3/2016

Tanka
 Sep 2016 Sia Jane
wordvango
wonders
 Sep 2016 Sia Jane
wordvango

have at heart the next breath
second then the minute
then the day the next week
healing
our broken spirits
into years we have been
taken into lives
into hearts we loved
into those we have broken
into dreams we spoke not of
into memories we forget
into days we choose  now
where the time
of a sunrise
is something
we choose
now
and is not at a whim

 Sep 2016 Sia Jane
SE Reimer

~

her face more weathered
than the softened lines of spring,
the supple skin that i’d remembered;
bright rouge cheeks now faded,
first to ocher, then to umber,
over-baked in summer’s noonday sun.
a gentle rain has washed her clean,
has rinsed the dusty air,
and lips once parched and taut
refilled with moisture;
now the coming brilliance,
golden orange in varied hue,
the sultry face of haze,
of summer’s afternoon.
she turns slowly with a misty gaze,
a taste of autumn's coming glory.
a gradual distance growing,
yet still a sparkle in her eye;
less mischievous,
down to business...
resolute in preparation.
a touch of teardrop,
formed in folded recesses,
slips unnoticed from its corner,
except the glistening trail it leaves,
as it trickles ’cross,
her amber meadow’s face;
now her lips will taste
the golden brilliance;
sunshine’s lazy breaking beams
drift above the sun-dried lawn,
a morning mist of rain-washed air,
the smell of moistened linen,
hanging o’er the low-hung lines,
blends refreshing scent
with drifting, harvest smoke,
from curling ember’s
dance on wood and leaves;
rising slowly, lightly
lapping in the breezes;
and in the distant sky,
we see, we smell, we taste,
every sense anticipates,
as droplets in formation wait;
the rains are coming,
summer slowly loosens grip.
her body feels the changing air,
a sad anticipation of the end;
but wistfully she knows,
of celebration coming
of harvest’s swoon,
of cradle moons
of wine, of dance, of song;
autumn’s coming, t’will be here soon
behind her winter won’t be long,
yet this today she holds,
let tomorrow wait;
let today for readying be,
the joyful jubilation,
a floral conflagration
summer’s final harvest, and
the autumn’s color ball!

~

post script.

season’s change conjoured as a woman's face; of summer make-up being removed; of taking on autumn’s hues.

i’d be lying if i said i looked forward to NW winter and its rain, yet still it is a small price to pay for the lush, green hills and valleys of my corner of the world, of torrential waterfalls, even of my kitchen faucet, bearing sparkling, crystal, water from fresh, snow melt at the simple turn of a lever.

 May 2016 Sia Jane
Joe Cottonwood

My daughter says
every tree has a soul.
Some are good, some are bad.
But always, a soul.
My daughter is young enough
to know these things.

My daughter says also
some trees have a spirit.
(But only the good trees.)
People, too.
She is old enough
to say these things.

Guided by spirit, we can grow
from the crack in a boulder.
We can lift sidewalks.
We bend and yet are strong.
We flower, we bear fruit, we give seed.
We are where the raccoon sleeps,
the hawk nests, the monkeys play.

Without the spirit we twist,
we wither, we break.
With the spirit our roots take hold.
My daughter knows. So young, so old.

This is one of my favorites. I had to delete it and two other poems from Hello Poetry while a journal published it. The journal, an anthology called Dove Tales, is out now, so here's the poem back where it first appeared. And thank you, everybody who first appreciated it here. You gave me the confidence to send it out.
 May 2016 Sia Jane
Just Melz

You are the
        window
              to my pain
  Cloudy with
            no chance of clarity
      I can see
               how far
away you are
                    Out of focus,
           still hurting me
                      so easily

Not everything that breaks is unusable, like my heart for example.
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