all through it
you figure it out.
what comes of conjecture?
surmises, or a lecture --
oh, someone can always tell you
what It’s all about.
when you place your Self in the Maelstrom,
you get what you receive.
some .. times .. silence.
and upon this,
you place what you Believe.
i did not measure up.
i was not good enough.
i was discarded,
unwanted doll in a tree.
like Fletcher and Zenobia,
lost in a trunk,
until - discovered! --
they set each other free.
sweet, sweet time.
i have known such joys,
such .. pleasures.
to me, at least,
i want to release;
to give them back over,
to whence came the wellspring of the very endeavor.
all the ingredients that make up a soul.
yinyang, the full moon sang,
you have everything you ever believed you can unfold.
a thought is a wisp.
a seed, indeed.
and therein is it’s birth -- on the spot.
as soon as you think of it, it fruits forth.
then -- you have to figure out how to get rid of it -
to share the thought.
seeds, oh God, the glistening.
the sweet, sweet honeydrip melt.
to give it away replaces anything you could ever say,
in silence, you know your capabilities, felt.
each has it’s own Sensation say.
they speak, almost uncontrollably, in ways.
gesticulations are only elations.
when you get excited,
your body moves.
shoulders wrinkle, pull up in shyness,
but at the same time eyelashes bat the truth.
there are no words to depict it.
gutteral, what syllables say.
no, only touch is transference;
the meeting of eyes, held in gaze.
mouths have corners that crinkle.
chins lower, to focus eyes on surmise.
a sidelong glance is invitation,
if you receive one, it says come inside.
ahh.. but there is The Rub, dear Shakespeare,
the game of shame or blame unfurls.
it is not a Rapunzel’s wanton
that really wants to be heard.
so you sway what you say,
knowing who’s to blame --
or to be exalted --
a simple matter of Choice.
what you reject or embrace
depicts your Place,
and so by that,
you learn your voice.
July 31, 2012.
Sweet Brother Bobby Would Have Been 68 This Day.
I Love You So, My Savior.