There are poems that are easy to share that want to be seen-read-heard
then there are other days when gray skies reflect my gray disposition
silent be silent say the critical voices don't scar the world with this
and so my mark on this world has often been one of absence
but to deny these gray poems is to deny myself is to deny the crocus blooming through the snow
for if I don't give expression to all of it including the gray then the beauty in me also stays hidden unexpressed-unrealized-unknown.
I have a notebook with unfinished poems in it. I sit down each day to write, and start by paging through this notebook. This poem is a combination of 3 gray poems that I turned past day after day. Now I can move them into the finished (but not quite right) notebook.
I don't like all the prepositions and connecting words in this poem, but it's just part of how I am writing currently.
Scratch off the surface of anyone's mind and you might be surprised at the picture you find the one that's behind the smile that you see every day we all paint our faces but leave little traces in shades of Dorian Gray
Movement and shout has been given to the world. Who wants to spend time in stillness and silence? Me who listens to the reverberation of these frequencies, and observes their form and colors. Silence listens most to the unheard. In it my consciousness forms a likeness of myself. Mine is like that white guy with a buzz cut, who sees truth for himself, and has a wider than thin musculature (medium). How similar are "we" really to put every white guy with a buzz cut with a medium build who rejects the conformal truth prevalent in this country and time? Why should they be the sidhas that my mind shows me? What is their power? Their eyes show the imperfection of a tattoo. That inkish black stare. Those creases on the forehead. That perplexed point on the brow. That hair so short as to wonder its color, introducimg itself in the eye brows, the white skull cap, and even the short spotty beard. The shadows between lights portrays more gray than black and white. The gray of prison bars, the gray of streets, the gray of rain clouds. With all the fancy of a toilet bowl. With all the luxury of a walk. More a "Beastie Boy" than an "Eminem". More a Jew than a Christian. More a Baha'i than a Muslim. More a Buddhist than a Hindu. When will shade and utility become beauty?
And just like that, the sun sets on the last golden, cresting wave of summer. Standing on your porch and clinging to you, not wanting to let go of these memories. Tapioca and folklore, drive-ins and sing-alongs, green dresses and sail boats on a lake. The heavy gates slowly shutting, and now, we move onward. Towards applications and last years while clinging to our gray film childhoods, and your pleas to "stay here". May our love be passed on.
I think I knew, even then, that would be our first and last summer together.