Water Blossoms
I'd like to go there, but I know I should stay away.
Pillows of shimmery grey press through the black
metal grid that keeps them suppressed.
In any single moment they could splash through -
mercurial - exposing the transgressions of a life long past
and now fully regretted, washing over talented beggars
who must plead for sustenance from strangers,
lost in strangeness, like golden carp in a glass jar,
watching orange flowers burn above their heads.
I fear to look over my shoulder because I know
the clouds form shapes behind my back.
Fluctuating symbology that drafts memory into pictures
and projects them, pale wisps, on the green walls of future.
How dreams break from their drawers, all longing
and ambition, make-believe and secrets,
in symbolist disguise. Like Doves made of paper
if they fly too close to the sun they'll catch fire -
symbols of the transient nature of peace.
Events long past reshape and form banners of protest
for battles we will fight again tomorrow. This
is the circular nature of history, of life.
How lips betray - outing the very thing we would keep in.
And once out, how words pht pht pht through the air,
like the circle of a thrown knife - with flawless aim -
at the tenderness of each other.
Swim the monsoon rains. Even the maelstrom is a circle/
sinkhole, where we strive. Water holds the light
just as we who are water hold light.
Glutted with crimson blossoms,
the meanings of secrets mesh
with weedstars in the darker depths.
posted by burning moon at 5:53 PM
3 Comments:
If you have time, I'd appreciate your thoughts on this. Do the ideas follow smoothly and logically enough from each other?
I'd like to go there,
but I know
I should stay away.
Pillows of shimmery grey
press through the black
metal grid that keeps them suppressed.
In a{ny} single moment
they could burst {and slash}through
mercurial - exposing the transgressions of a life long past
{and} now fully regretted,
washing over talented beggars
who must plead for sustenance
from strangers.
Lost in strangeness,
like golden carp
in a glass jar,
watching orange flowers
burn above their heads.
I fear to look over my shoulder because I know
{the}clouds are forming shapes behind my back.
*Cloud used twice in three lines,maybe another word selection?*
Cloud symbology that drafts memory into pictures
{and} projecting{s} them,
pale wisps,
on the green walls
of future.
How dreams break from their drawers, all longing
and ambition, make-believe and secrets,
in symbolist disguise.
Like Doves made of paper
if they fly too close
to the sun
they'll catch fire.
Paper doves aren't real,
they're a symbol of
the transient nature of peace.
(I wonder if you should maybe combine the above two strophes to avoid the repetition of doves/paper kid?)
Events long past reshape and form banners of protest
for battles we will fight
again tomorrow.
This is the circular nature
of history,
of life.
How lips betray - outing the very thing we would keep in.
And once out, how words pht pht pht through the air -
like the circle of a thrown knife - with flawless aim
at the tenderness
of each other.
Swim the monsoon rains.
Even the maelstrom is a circle/
sinkhole, where we strive.
Water holds the light
just as we who are water
hold light -
glutted with crimson blossoms,
the meaning of secrets meshes
with weed-stars in the darker depths.
What a superb vision of beauty you have, this poem evokes and evolves, the images running like a glorious Monet of light and colour.
My suggestions are just that my dear, hope you find something useful amongst them.
cheers ears. Thanks for that! *smiles*
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