"anticlimactically" poems
Feet. Gnarled, scabbed and bent at the bone. Where‘s the beauty? I look at my toenails, my arms around my knees, as tears roll down and hit the sidewalk. The splash is exciting, and a thousand images come to mind.
I stand as I take in everything around me, savoring each breath, watching the colors enter my mouth.
The wind. It’s colorful here. Rolling rainbows of blues and greens and reds caress the buildings around me. It’s astounding when it blows.
Last week, the sun exploded into a thousand little ***** of light and they float around me now, serene and inert. Only when I walk do those in my path slowly twirl out of my way.
Slowly, slowly. As if they are moving through gelatin, as if they are slightly begrudged that I‘m counteracting their inertia.
I know that this is beauty. It is beauty that is this place. I would give up every element comprising my being to have this beauty with me when I leave, but I know I can’t overstay my welcome.
I place my foot onto a step behind me and I walk up. There is a balcony above me where I bring my camera. I sit on this ledge and I let my feet hang over and I try to capture everything this beauty is.
But it can’t be done. I have tried so many times to take this place, to put it in my pocket. But it can’t be done. No matter how many times I try, or how many ways I turn my camera, I can’t capture it.
I set the camera down after a couple minutes and I look to my left. A little ball of sun is floating beside my head. I stick a finger out to poke it and, as if by a magnetic field, it slowly pushes itself back when I am but a mere inch away. I try again, and fail. I put both hands out, cupping, as if to net it. I miss, and we play this game for a while.
But the suspense goes nowhere, and the ball of sun finally anticlimactically slips a few feet away. Disappointed, I stand up and walk slowly down the steps, my hand on the edge of the wall next to me.
The suns begin to lose their brightness, and I know it is time for me to go. I’m almost sad, knowing that I won’t see beauty like this until the next time I am able to return here.
Almost. This place is so great, so majestic, I can’t help but leave with a sense of pride, knowing I am privileged enough to come here.
With a final look back, I take in the glow of the setting ***** of sun against the background of the wind. I hesitate at the bridge, to put my hair back up into a ponytail. I slip back into my sneakers and I put on my lip gloss. I’m ready to go back to the side of the world from which I came.
I have to catch my breath as I prepare myself for the world I’m returning to. I breathe in deeply, and I look down, at my feet. Gnarled, scabbed, and bent at the bone. Where’s the beauty?
I take a reluctant, mournful step onto the bridge
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
All things must come to an end,
they say.
This place already feels hollow
without you.
A hall of echoes.
I miss you,
even as you linger.
I am capsised,
by this primal urge,
Once abandoned,
nearly forgotten,
reborn in your irreverent grace.
I discover myself marooned.
Cast out.
A Castaway,
on this island you sacnctioned,.
It is only what I am owed,
The inevitability,
of my own privateering.
Machinations of unreliable pursuit...
My imagination,
as ever,
running away with itself.
You were a landfall,
of sorts.
Painting yourself an unlikely comrade,
silently synching oars,
navigating parallel waters.
Finding purchase (purpose?)
on the cruel waters
of this devious digital sea.
Would haves,
cresting as could haves,
breaking into should haves,
spilling,
anticlimactically,
onto indifferent shores.
A filmy release,
A ghost froth,
delivering its spent intention,
unto shifting sands,
etching itself but briefly,
before its memory is consumed,
and ferried off,
by the relentless gravitation of the tides,
by the eternal gravity of time.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC