Sail down hard
and whip the wind
in a long dive to whitewater,
roar and slam the rocks
past trees and cliffs,
infusion,
confusion
you know nothing about…
at the muddy end of the bed
she dances right under your bridge
and accumulates there
until the dam breaks
and leaves
what’s left to wander
dazed into the night.
She sings raunchy blues
and trips the light fantastic
I say, trips the light fantastic
because destruction is where its at,
Baby.
You need to get with the program,
Baby;
Figure it out.
Next time,
get it right the first time
understand this song don’t end
until it’s over.
I say, this song don’t end
until it’s over,
Baby.
hello dearest poet I feel your passion here and yes the song doesn’t end until we die I just may meet a few people after that too great write❤
Well, thank you Crimsin, for taking the time… I am brand new here and this site has a learning curve…
Vol
Vol,
Tim alerted me of this. Before responding to comments by others, we need to hit reply. Otherwise they will not see our “thank you”–
If you hit reply first, you will know it worked because your reply to the commentor will be to the right, under the comment.
As for this poem, wow. The whitewater imagery is powerful, but what I really appreciate is what you have done opposite here. The whitewater usually controls us, but here we are in control. She dances blues and we man the paddle and dance along with her.
j.
Thanks, Jacob… This site looks like it has some possibilities. I’m looking forward to inflicting words on whole new unsuspecting victims at every turn…
Perhaps the tornado swept something from beneath your doormat, sir Vol! Whatever reached land seems to have drowned something either dear or dreadful. Perhaps this simple scribbler might have the metaphors explained, please.
‘roar and slam the rocks
past trees and cliffs,
infusion,
confusion’
Wish there was an NB to explain why such words came to be written. I know Welsh whitewater from the past, almost lost the thrill of what was invigorating but uncontrollable – just as life can be. But there again, people try their best to survive. Somehow. Don’t doubt those who know you well, will understand. You’re known for your compasssion, learned via the good book, of course. ‘Do unto..
Joy,
Thank you… and hmmm… you have started a conversation insteas of just a review!
That’s the thing… It has long been my contention that poems are entrees… except they can be consumed countless times… and every time they will taste different… So symbols mean what we see in them…
WE all face obstacles and sometimes they ate too big to handle, and other times just slow us down a little like, if I had a car wreck vs stuck in the mud… and colored by how we are feeling when we read it.
Vol
Joy,
This is an old poem, a response to another poet’s reading back in Nashville. He was wondering about the lack of passion in his life… You cannot expect meaning from nothing,,, not to mention the darkness of boredom…
Vol
Joy,
This is an old poem, a response to another poet’s reading back in Nashville. He was wondering about the lack of passion in his life… You cannot expect meaning from nothing,,, not to mention the darkness of boredom…
Vol
Once read that boredom is something created by an unknown to renew the human spirit – but only if the body has one! Said by an online poet, think Bryson! Still working on it 🙂
I used to tell my students that only boring people get bored…