What is Drastic + Dramatic

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Our Parents

I hope you don't think that's too graphic, the blueberry world bursting from a belly beneath big bosoms. It's relevant....keep going....

With the official passing of summer I've been feeling mysteriously... close to the moon - er, poetic, actually. And that might be enough, but today's date is also 9/23. So of course in my bizarre, unexplainable attachment to this number, I post. And it will be poetic. We hope.

Time and Earth

He was there, as always, and growing lonely
So he took a couple of years from his side and made her.
After that they two were made one, never apart.
He aged every moment and yet never changed.
He went on.
She swirled at his touch.
He went on and she spun.
She spun and he went and went.
From seeds, together they created life.
She was the apple blossom, he was the rotting apple.
Always together and never apart.
She only gave. Gave, and recycled to give again.
He went on, ever unforgiving, never looking back.
She would stir from within and take back.
He left the apple there; she swallowed it to her bosom.
She would always heal; life went on only with him.
He aged and went on unchanging.
And sometimes he felt forgotten, unnoticed.
-My children don't appreciate me, said he.
I am always with them and complain only do they.
'Too fast, too slow.'
I take forever to arrive, say they, but I know forever,
which is why I take it.
She weaves a new gown.
He threads into her what with he'd be remembered.
Skeletons prove he was there.
Layers reveal her timely beauty.
Collections hint to his unimaginable age.
She would change gowns.
He loved to watch.
On her ice he would skate and never fall.
When it melted he would swim and never drown.
When it cycled again from heaven he would never thirst.
-My children don't appreciate me, said she.
On me blame they the bad; to them goes the good.
If I stop the bad I must stop entirely and then
where would they be?
It's where they're headed, taking all the good.
And she changed to blossoms.
-I go on, said he.
-I grow weary, said she. If but for a moment
Your hand released mine, how rested I'd be!
He went on, he looked on,
-Not much further, said he.
He held her hand in his as the last marble.
The last time.
She again changed her gown.
The leaves fell from the shivering branch.
The children piled them
The wind blew them away.
Her tears welled in puddles; how she hates to pause.
The children put on their boots
And splashed the pools away.
Never a wasted drop, she swallows them back to her bosom.
He ties his laces, he can't wait
nor stop, nor arrive, nor leave.
Does she spin as he stands still?
He went on and she swirled at his touch.
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