João-Maria.
615 - a sad saturday before, I ask. Home is where the water wells up, and birds stretch atop the clothesline. I hold myself around the arms held around me. A sudden barbarous peace, like a streamlet after it rains — and how little it does. you listen to the petals, the stems and vapours, your mouth is sand and wind and sand again. The papers, as usual, sling the world away from us. My fingers stretch atop your face, as birds, but sleep is my flight. what we look at was once green. It will be green again. our sky of ferocious light is now drowned in brutality. it is possible to appear lost, suddenly or not quite. not a lot of light is needed so that we see a way out. we just don’t want to leave, at least not before it rains again.
(CALIATH) 
It is brilliant how you wove meaning through personal pronouns–moving from the “I” to “You” to the collective consciousness of “we”..Amazing..
The truth rippling through your verse:-
“Not a lot of light
is needed
So that we see
a way out.”
– is astounding and thought-provoking. Bravo!
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You are perspicacious as always, Suzette. It was a conscious choice to transition through pronouns. In a sense, when you create a poem that is an emotion, you also create a dialogue, and a dialogue implies transition.
Thank you so much for your kind words, as always, and for your attentive reading.
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Absolutely agree! Well said. And thank you for your gracious words. Cheers. Happy creating!
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Your writing is so exquisitely beautiful that my heart wants to weep.
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Oh, Leyde, I hope it doesn’t! I’m glad you find it to be beautiful, that means a lot, though admittedly this particular one wasn’t my best work.
It takes a while to get the gears going again.
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Well if this isn’t your best work–I can’t imagine how amazing your best is!!😍
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May the peace come to you again soon like the rain, JM.
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And that painting is beautiful, more how I picture December where we live (but perhaps all that is a state of mind, right?)
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It feels like the entire year if you live in Britain, and it feels like no month where I live. Even Decembers here are lightful (which I don’t always like).
But I haven’t been writing about anything real at all lately. All of it is invented. All of it is somewhere else, someone else, something else.
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Wow! The invention thing is its own fun escape or exploration. Maybe go all elliptical and out of orbital and you’ll circle back around to more “real.” All of it’s real and made-up too in a sense. But I think I know what you mean. Good muscle to work the invented brain.
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I’m not a great architect. When I feel like writing, I do, and I never struggle on what to write, but I sometimes struggle with what I’ve written.
When I feel especially isolated, I write about love, about relationships, about communion with the other, but I have never had nor felt any of those things. Thus, it’s not really my life I’m writing about, but a simulation of it. It’s emotionally credible and detailed enough to hurt, at times, because pretended pain and real pain are indistinguishable in poetry, since poetry itself is limitless empathy.
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Ah the pretended and real as indistinguishable, I see that. Thank you for that JM, that’s good.
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