May's offering at The Granary.
Staple of a life lived well,
binding together both frontal an rear sheaths of skin
as they sense breezes, smell lilacs, or taste onions
and upon aging, glad of the constant pain in the hip
(it reminds one of life lived)
as long as the pain isn’t too sharp, like when spurred to a trot
or forced to feel the effects of a falling barometer.
Still, reclining on the grass in a park by the sea,
The wheels turn early
as the sun mounts his chariot
wind changing direction,
bells on the fishing boats returning to port
agitating the filaments of wakefulness
and bringing hunger for movement.
Like an unusual organ removed years ago while we slept
Every so often I reach back to wipe the sweat and feel the scar
and on occasion, I stretch to scratch and pull the hand back red with blood
so that while blood runs, seldom do I recall why or when or how that part was removed,
Or what it was, really;
perhaps it was worth it…
Many ghosts follow
like warm or unduly chill breezes on dark summer nights
or out of place, colorful insects at midwinter
calling my forgotten parts back from a place
far away and inaccessible.
How can the old and new join to marry my lost and disjointed members
as run the hues of an autumnal sunset
in January’s decline and lingering nights?
It is all paint laid on, layer after layer,
shade within color and hue-
I know by heart a few strained descriptions of the refuge that remains
and consistently avert the gazes of those and that which has passed.
We are all somehow programmed for stardom with a view of the sea-
and even at this point in the race, my view feels sometimes like a big-screen image on a twin sheet, suspended in the garden.
This life could be so much more-
and at the insistence of this description,
taking our landscape and peeling it back like a wrapper,
we each learn that we lean on this beautiful scaffold
for just long enough.