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Thursday, February 4, 2010

the chess game

the chess game, of moving all your words around
can entertain, but never satisfy:                               

you bait and switch, with relative pronouns;
the proximity of the demonstrative merely teases,
and by the tip of your tongue, participles dangle

your adjectives: just more interior decorating,
like a child at play, who dances two dolls together,
but never for one instant, forgets that they are dolls

if playing were not more fun than that,
who would ever want to play; if words were not more
than just the product of their differences,
who would bother to construct anything out of them?

if touching emotions were as easy
as touching two inanimate objects together,
while waiting for heaven to effectively deliver the lightning bolt,
that would shock them, into breath and living

then what hope can live in words, alone:
if they are not there first, inside your own being
if they are not your children, conceived under your own heart
birthed in placental tides of blood, and hopeful love

if their easing out of you, did not make you nearly scream,
with the pain of the separation, then perhaps 
they were only miscarriages, after all?

2 comments:

  1. Apt description of the human/writer's condition. We seem to thrash about saying things ...sometimes unsure of their consequences....sometimes more confident than we ought to be...anyway as far as the relative pronouns are concerned....lately I've observed them interbreeding...which can lead to too narrow shoulders or inferior brains....and I worry about that.
    No need to worry about the greatness of this poem though...a keeper for sure.

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  2. Astounding imagery, Patti and I can relate to every word you have so eloquently strung together.

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