“Ever the hard unsunk ground, ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and the downward sun..” — Walt Whitman ~ Song of Myself.

Ever the hour of mauve sunset slipping, softer, sensual
as hushed lips dreaming—
ever the last thought that consumes before my head hits the pillow,
it’s how everything that feels quieter, that feels safer with you around
that befuddles,
demons these demons of mine that come out to play,
believe there is no such thing as accidental meetings between those who
are destined to be.

I am forever contemplating the day, the pitter patter of rain outside my window
the kettle whistling,
the world at large is a whirlpool of chaos and din, as Delta variant continues
to gnaw at everything that dares to come in its way;
does another way even exist?
If we share the same response does that make us related?
Blue grass less than content to lie beneath the sky, it’s disheartening
when you dwell on it
and far too many cans of ice cold sprite on the kitchen counter.

Ever the conversation between night and man, bag of emotions clasped tight,
let it loose, who knows the chariot of musings that rides,
embellished with hues of a ruse—
who knows the shade of lust that overpowers,
who knows the words left unuttered,
who knows what the next moment holds, what the next moment holds?

Ever the dubiety of statements, ever the generosity of rain upon the blacktop
roadway,
ever the Israeli-Palestinian conflict,
a compromise, a solution, a means to an end seems to be nowhere in sight,
the dust recounts stories otherwise lost in translation,
who talks about how many cradles are ambushed every minute,
who refers to buildings burnt down, day after day an ashen wreck;
who gives a damn whether or not the blackened ground gains seed that sprouts,
cold hands of strangers that brush by in metro station after hours.

The dark woods beckon as noble knights,
ever the conversation between night and man, bag of emotions clasped tight,
let it loose, who knows the chariot of musings that rides,
in complicated hours of July, speak my name to the falling stars,
paint me, all my versions, past and incoming in sweltering purple and gold,
a compromise, a solution, a means to an end seems to be,
seems to be,
don’t settle for fear, these are just delusions in the long run,
you are not part of a rotation, you are not blind, not naïve;
who refers to buildings burnt down, day after day an ashen wreck,
who gives a damn whether or not the blackened ground gains seed that sprouts,
lips these lips blushing a ripe pink, gorgeous in their lament,
who knows the words left unuttered,
who knows what the next moment holds, what the next moment holds?
You might be none of the things you were expecting, but maybe everything
to the person who needs you;
ever the last thought that consumes before my head hits the pillow,
the last stanza builds a crescendo steadily moving towards a plausible outcome—
like our first glance, your eyes silencing every shred there is of unease.
River mud, bird song and unwritten chapters, time cannot crop
what has long been promised.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Judi Betts Watercolour Painting, Pinterest

Bjorn hosts at dVerse, ten year celebration week, and invites us to incorporate chant techniques of repeating into our poems. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Meeting The Bar: Chant Poetry @dVerse Poets Pub