Sunday, June 12, 2005

Oak Leaves

June 12, 2005

To Joy Thekla.

Most people will never
look up into a tree
the way we are doing
right now.

Most people will never
appreciate or even see
(from underneath)
the way light plays on the leaves,
within the leaves,
casting about their surface
an iridescent sheen
which can only truly be seen
with the mind’s eye.

There’s music in those leaves.

And you hear it-

the symphony
which most people
simply shout over.

It’s not unlike
the sound of cicadas
in South Texas summer.

You have to time your conversation
with and against the rise and fall
of their incessant hum.

But in-between
your questions and replies,
if you listen closely,
you’ll hear the wisdom of the ages
in that confounded racket...

Hold your comments
and your sighs...



Anonymous said...

Taking your advice about just writing something. Here is what came to mind reading "Oak Leaves".

Within life lies certain musical and lyrical apparatai,
seeking to be born,
to break forth,
from the sights and sound,
the rhythm and motions,
of our encounter with what has been created.

But we are constrained
by recalcitrance.
Unable to truly enjoy,
to dispassionately embrace,
what is substantially emotive and vibrant.
Instead we are animated
by what is not real
by what has no significance
and in the midst of the inane
we are only able to love by brute force.

Monday Night Poetry Guy

Maria said...

Nice work, PG. I love it. If you just start, your thoughts will write themselves. Well done.


George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

Site Hits