My last post inspired this one. Today, I’m happy.
Sprites, silver winged
harvest the sun
in acorn shells
and bottle caps
from the sidewalk,
down the vines
twirled about the trees,
the light dripping
from the pine’s limbs
stretched as wide as welcome.
Not a poem. Just a thought.
Tis a day to harvest the sun, to fill your lungs with breath, to remember your heart’s name for the days of youth are dreams and soon comes age and diligence. Give us the sun!!!
Stream of Consciousness is a literary style in which a character’s thoughts, feelings, and reactions are depicted in a continuous flow uninterrupted by objective description or conventional dialogue. James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, and Marcel Proust are among its notable early exponents.
While sitting in my local library this morning, I streamed my consciousness.
Sorry for typos. This is really fresh. I’ll edit later.
At the Dorothy Henry Library – Vernon, New Jersey
What if the large, wooden butterflies,
hung on the wall near the reference section,
where facts and dates are stored in a brigade
of books that stand straighter than others,
what if the butterflies began to breathe,
to flutter against their bonds,
bob and weave above the tall shelves,
above the newspaper rack, urging the gray paper
to rise as plumes of smoke. The librarians,
grim and stout, in small shoes, with small voices
would stammer Oh my!! Oh my!!, their earrings flapping
in the butterflies’ wake as dog ears flap
on a dog sniffing the afternoon
from a passing car’s open window. The children,
at story time would rise from their decorum,
dance beneath the butterflies as wildflowers dance
in a golden meadow, escape through the open door
the butterflies flutter through, opened by a old woman
in a floral print dress, leaning on a cane,
carrying a bag of romance novels. The children
would yell and laugh as the wooden butterflies rise
over the trees, over the hills that hide
the real world from us all.
The following, as simple as I am, is inspired by a blog post on a wonderful blog. Please, find that post here.
Last Will and Testament
In a shoebox, hidden in the attic’s
where the floor creaks
like an old man’s bones
and the air is blessed
with the aroma of old books,
I’ve stashed my treasures:
a bird’s feather, silky, golden black,
three acorn shells
stuffed with old songs,
a red crayon, a blue marble,
a kiss, only for you,
a pencil and a swatch of paper
so you can begin to record
your own history – a poetry glorious.
Too whimiscal? Perhaps my dreams are taking me far too far away.
I’ll Weave a Poem
Today, I’ll weave a poem,
a pocket from grass reaching
above the pond
where cool air softens
shadows and ushers
a bullfrog’s meditations
into the sun. I’ll stuff it with lost treasures:
a butterfly’s flight, the concerns
of house cats, heat that swaddles
a dragon’s heart. Then, I’ll stitch
the pocket closed, lay it beneath
my head under a tree that relishes,
old songs, that remembers its name,
and I’ll sleep until this paper browns,
crinkles with age, when I’m needed
to weave another poem.
A vulture sweeps
above the blue air,
a shadow, a sliver,
an eyelash slipping
on afternoon’s breath.