a work in progress.
an old bible, a weatherworn journal.
Recording the daily assaults –
memorizing rain and shielding eyes
from the sun.
Somewhere a hand strikes a child-
throws a drunkard down
a flight of stairs.
Somewhere someone reaches
from darkness, to utter shadow-
to meet the body of another:
trembling with excitement or fear.
Somewhere someone enters the infinite
halls of the mind- into
the recesses of life, finds their dream
and cries.
Somewhere a mother
weeps over her dead child-
uses her hair to bandage
the wound in his head- unfolds
her hands from prayer to shut
the cathedral window of his eyes-
presses her lips to
the kaleidoscope of his mouth:
feels the wind rush through her,
feels it as though grief has transformed her
from vertigo to nirvana. Sees without seeing;
the last light of the year; neither lit for
remembrance or cause- but, which burns
because it must....spark hope in the heart
of those who witness its extinguishing-
because it must strike fear into the soul
of those who dare to defy it's burning.
Somewhere death is a poet
composing the day's eulogy;
high on life and late in the afternoon.
Somewhere a preacher kneels for
his flock- keeps them like
a good shepherd ought;
close to his heart.
Somewhere a bum recycles
a portion of daily bread- finds
the true nature of God
in soup kitchens-
while baby Jesus sleeps, abandoned
in a dark alley, trash can for a crib-
Sky scrappers become angels
who surround him, bending their
metallic faces toward the sky-
reaching for compassion who
lingers out of touch tonight.
Somewhere a hand types the minds
solitary column, reaches for a shot glass
to calm the nerves- stretches out
an awkward arm for the phone
to ease the nostalgia.
Somewhere a hand receives a telegram,
a handshake, waves hello or goodbye-
while someone experiences this
in a café; hiding from rain-
the home or work place-
reads it as though
they are extension of another self-
contemplating the perception of living
and the notion of life- finds reasoning
is often times undecided.
Somewhere this poem begins as
means to an end, and for another
ends to begin.
Poetry by Amberlee Carter
Read 1026 times
Written on 2005-07-13 at 18:58
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Print text
Somewhere a hand is reading outloud
Somewhere a hand is reading out loud-an old bible, a weatherworn journal.
Recording the daily assaults –
memorizing rain and shielding eyes
from the sun.
Somewhere a hand strikes a child-
throws a drunkard down
a flight of stairs.
Somewhere someone reaches
from darkness, to utter shadow-
to meet the body of another:
trembling with excitement or fear.
Somewhere someone enters the infinite
halls of the mind- into
the recesses of life, finds their dream
and cries.
Somewhere a mother
weeps over her dead child-
uses her hair to bandage
the wound in his head- unfolds
her hands from prayer to shut
the cathedral window of his eyes-
presses her lips to
the kaleidoscope of his mouth:
feels the wind rush through her,
feels it as though grief has transformed her
from vertigo to nirvana. Sees without seeing;
the last light of the year; neither lit for
remembrance or cause- but, which burns
because it must....spark hope in the heart
of those who witness its extinguishing-
because it must strike fear into the soul
of those who dare to defy it's burning.
Somewhere death is a poet
composing the day's eulogy;
high on life and late in the afternoon.
Somewhere a preacher kneels for
his flock- keeps them like
a good shepherd ought;
close to his heart.
Somewhere a bum recycles
a portion of daily bread- finds
the true nature of God
in soup kitchens-
while baby Jesus sleeps, abandoned
in a dark alley, trash can for a crib-
Sky scrappers become angels
who surround him, bending their
metallic faces toward the sky-
reaching for compassion who
lingers out of touch tonight.
Somewhere a hand types the minds
solitary column, reaches for a shot glass
to calm the nerves- stretches out
an awkward arm for the phone
to ease the nostalgia.
Somewhere a hand receives a telegram,
a handshake, waves hello or goodbye-
while someone experiences this
in a café; hiding from rain-
the home or work place-
reads it as though
they are extension of another self-
contemplating the perception of living
and the notion of life- finds reasoning
is often times undecided.
Somewhere this poem begins as
means to an end, and for another
ends to begin.
Poetry by Amberlee Carter
Read 1026 times
Written on 2005-07-13 at 18:58
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
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