Saturday, January 16, 2016



Sort of poetry by then, her juxtapositions
sans sequences, contexts, continuums;

sans proper tenses, pertinence, conventional wisdom;
a dark, intuitive truth, poetically incoherent beauty

plumbing a deeper level if (loved) one
only knew how to listen,

but one never does;
wrapped up in who she thought she was

and should have been,
tried earnestly to be or not to be;

exhausting after a while the listener,
telling her last minute truth

from the bed of a murmuring brook
and really what is there left to say or hear

after a lifetime of chatter and love,
dutiful endeavor, compulsive volatility?

That was her poetry, too, largely incoherent
to everyone around even herself

and yet, as I have suggested,
strangely brave, beautiful and worthy.

O child of God, how better to greet the mystery
than with humble bewilderment and inarticulacy?

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