November 2, 2018 at 11:13 pm Leave a comment


shapes have
passed and passed before me. (i am
not sure
if they were within my eye or out)
they bear
the faces of these daily
untouched strangers,
my neighbors…in my dreams
(these strange dreams)
they cannot hear me,
as i call them
nor pause their
ceaseless, unbearable pacing.

i sit encurled*
about myself
watching, unsure
if i’m dreaming
or awake
*So I have the occasional (very) bad habit of coining words. I have the bad taste to have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome with a nice high number, too. I’m also in enough pain to admit it, too bad I couldn’t manage to show it better while trying for compensation. Oddly enough too the imagery in this poem, too, has become rather real. –And I still often find it hard to admit that I’m a poet. [A poet who used to fell trees for a living? Was a maintenance man (not glorified janitor, either). Someone who ‘hung with the rougher crowd’ and not infrequently was somehow mistaken for them. The academics were pretty well convinced I just had to be a backwoods ruminant while the rurals (with whom I felt more comfortable, with whom I could actually identify) were completely uncomfortable with me, from the ‘long words’ to my ability to change. I can’t imagine being able to ‘fit in with the crowd’ and I most certainly don’t say that with pride.

Entry filed under: Ancient Poetry, voices. Tags: , .

words Journeys

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