Poet Commentaries

The Season of Breathless

In the back of my head is the next generation of poems.  I do not even know what they are going to be of yet, I may not enjoy writing them even but still I can feel them steeping.  For now I cannot even get a line down as a foretaste.  So said every newborn child and every shoot breaking ground.  

It is odd.  We can only couch the foretaste of divine in knowns.  I suppose it could be that the next season is spring, all sunny and full of new life.  I suppose it could be summer blooms and fruit.  Certainly it cannot be fall, not really.  Certainly it cannot be compost, who thinks like that?

The reality of first steps is bruised and scabbed knees but no one dreams of that.  “Oh I am going to have the most spectacular scar” is not the way of people.  

There are beautiful seasons of life that you cannot wish on anyone and only God has the capacity of love to put us through it.  Even the best parents cringe shoving the little guy out of the nest to the cute apprentice kitten waiting at the base of the tree….and this is easy compared to what God must do.  Of course they must learn to fly and, though it is hard, they must learn to disappoint kittens.  

That has nothing to do with my poem today.  


The sloop slushed.
The woodwinds spent;
their reeds cracked
and all breath taken.
The hum of contrails
coming off the sail,
rudder and hull.

Percussions begin.
The wake catches up
and with the crests,
they beat the hull.
Sheets snap
slack lines plinked;
the tiller a wood stick
in a void.

There is no metronome
that can keep beat to
“dead in the water”.
The composer smiles.
The maestro taps
trying to bring order
to reams of full rests.
The whole orchestra,
nothing but a restless shuffle
drifting listlessly
with but misplayed
sporadic coughs
and scraped chairs.

They are trained
for pulling just so
on rudder and line,
loving their part
but you can’t pull
in perfect languid,
and no score is written
for breathless

Alone and unseen
in the inside of a shell
I place my ear on the hull,
the mast and halyard
and understand the worth
of nothing played well.

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