when do you know a poem is finished? The poem…
words elude/ no shoes on their feet/ as laughter barrels down the dirty alley /distant vibes play pretend/ and the rhythmic tide prays/ i sway with the ocean’s beat/ rattles wash ashore/ again and again and again/ lap me up/ once more/ Monhegan
(working on this… like all of my poems posted. nothing is ever finished.
i think i need to tease out visuals. does the poem have movement? give you any sense of passion? yearning?)
Remember, yesterday, I opened and read:
“I like the intimacy
with a patch of ground
the closeness and the drawing in,
the swish the grass makes
with the scissored snap of stems,”
From her poem Cutting the grass with Scissors
well, i wrote in the margins of her book, much like my living, existing in the periphery, a few words…
two worn, bent at the wrist
we share -a small token of fervent hope
though nothing stays for long
my dandelion wishes stray
easterly, past our thoughts.
Staying on the island, even for the shortness of time enjoyed, was an awakening to how harried life can become. Oh! How I pine for the evergreen of Monhegan life.
Monhegan Island May 2016