"importunes" poems
287
A Clock stopped—
Not the Mantel’s—
Geneva’s farthest skill
Can’t put the puppet bowing—
That just now dangled still—
An awe came on the Trinket!
The Figures hunched, with pain—
Then quivered out of Decimals—
Into Degreeless Noon—
It will not stir for Doctors—
This Pendulum of snow—
This Shopman importunes it—
While cool—concernless No—
Nods from the Gilded pointers—
Nods from the Seconds slim—
Decades of Arrogance between
The Dial life—
And Him—
8.1k
The evidence:
a thickened chest and a dim grin,
which triumph over my strong insouciance
After twenty two
plus hope,
though yet ungrasped,
the chasm between our scopes has not narrowed!
I glided past you, above the whim of time,
you did not notice
'We merely coexisted almost met but always messed it,
spinning around like two sides of a coin'
My resistance,
for once as a raised voice,
importunes the years!
I am inclined to remain unknown,
no nearer,
lest I upset fate
It is better;
one thing to do that I have never done:
send you a poem
(How Do I Love Thee?)
You are you;
I am I
What is meant to be will always find its way
Espy!
Oct 11, 2020
Oct 11, 2020 at 9:31 PM UTC
This title, this challenge,
Has rested uncomfortably in IPad memory,
Storage unit for Poems Needing Composition,
Unwritten, unanswered, needy for resolution.
Today is a good day to answer.
You are the pause between my breaths,
A ledge to rest on, a stepping stone,
Without you, there is no next one.
You are audience faithful,
Scribbles, wordplay, jokes horrible,
Official Storer/Inspiration Sorcerer of my unending script.
You are shy critic, unwavering,
Deft, with feminine oversight,
Knowledgable proven, when silence, best.
You overfill my AM coffee cup,
The mug that advises sagely,
Be calm in you heart.
You overfill my PM cup nightly,
Knowing that even tho, can't sing or dance,
I need to, can do, can't do w/o you.
So lest, mistaken grievous,
You think, highly erroneous,
This poem is NOT about me babe,
This poem is entitled,
You,
How Much, Owed,
You.
Lest the answer be poetically muddled,
On this day, perfect weather, perfect clarity,
Unashamedly Everything.
Sept. 15th 2012
In bed, 8:22 am
NYC
---------------
Addendum June 29th 2012
This old soul loves you more. He cannot believe his good fortune,
This June, this one more perfect afternoon, my heart importunes,
Love my poetry like I love thee, and we will have the most
Perfect Union
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
Absolute science and art of being whole
at one and under no delusion that
mankind (or nature) give a ****
whether you amount
to something or not.
Narrowed down
nothing
nothing but matter matters, matter, content
of life (serious, love it) hate
death, for the hell of it, to
see what it's like in
the heart of
darkness.
Deeper and deeper I go
but who would bother to **** me
or love me? Belonging to the drums
of wooful war I
woof and bay like
every other
dog.
Down I go to the depths of material life
the material is spirit wrought
by the material world. The
drum and jet plane
the bird and sumac
the pollen
seed.
No answer is forthcoming for the young fool
importunes to ask too frequently
the fool's question. What
is my next move. He
steps lightly and does
not seem to care
quite where.
The
material world is reality, my friend
and sadness is the spiritual root
without which the love-nut
may be reached only
by stretching
the emotions
bare
raw, where desert delights exhibit
movement in the sunlit light. Where
none find their way
without following leaders
sometimes the wrong way.
The path
is
apart from the dance or the dancer who
cutting cross country laughs
at his perennial fright of being
caught outdoors, out of sight
alone with the wind and rain
for days on end
in hiding.
Up
on the roof, the telephone ringing,
books getting delivered to the library free,
gratis, no fire, no flood
a meager understanding
of what rolls
the earth.
Gravity
rolls the earth (and may sometimes rock it)
each of us achieving the gravity of a planet
and pulling the world apart with our loves.
Taking existence beyond the limits
set for it, into
the universe
beyond
We went out beyond the surf
into the adirondack of trees waiting,
wanting nothing, mountains
wanting to grow slowly.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
Writing verse,
my distractions are few
Prose unwritten,
the Muse importunes
Writing in meter,
writing in rhyme
Her blessings upon me,
fortune divine
Spiritual kinship,
rind bearing fruit
The flowers to spray,
the soil to root
Prayers spoken ageless,
footnotes in time
Words crossing over,
—gift so sublime
(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2017)
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 12:29 PM UTC