Poesy

Mosaic world,
Thief of my temperance,
Drifting sorcerer of the windswept
Places of my heart,
Return your cobbled, lighted being
Once more to my side.
Fill again these intimate cracks,
The fingers unruly around glass bottles,
Grasping like a child
In that uncareful way
At the delicate truths which live,
Which die,
In the small spaces of a morning.

Gilded mystery,
Breathe anew the unlit stories
Of the thousand whispered words you have
So generously,
So cruelly,
Bequeathed me.

Am I so different from
Those wiser poets, eyes of stars,
Mouths agape in the moment of ecstasy,
When time breached through the cool water of night
Another sunsplit morning?
Have I not the same breathless spirit encountered,
When, happening to look up from weary life,
I have been struck by a momentary lapse of presence
And been transported back
Back
Through sublimity, to that moment when all things
All poets
Speak the same language?

©K Paige Medina 09 May 2017

Advertisements

The Illusion of Silence

Heat overtook the world
For a moment,
Bubbling its insistent movement into froth,
Jumping and excited,
Churning with the massive
sluggishness of magma,
Unapologetically leaving flames
Awoken momentarily into angry dancing
By a passing heat —
A scorched moment.

But then,
With the suddenness of nightfall,
The world cools
Briefly,
Water drifts into crystal shapes,
Time fractures,
White static hushes it all
Into the illusion of silence.

Peace on earth —
Snow on naked branches —
We must be silent
Before the world once more
remembers
The heat of its mouth.

© K Paige Medina 11/17/2016

Bar Moment

Momentarily,
I am alone in the bar.
Tuesday afternoon spreads her
wide lips and yawns,
and only I can see it
in the neon bouncing
around the thick seat of my glass,
in the tinny music reverberating off
the halls where
many unspoken disconnections
linger.

In the peace of undisturbed liquor,
tinkling ghosts
forget for a moment
and exhale into the weekday light.

I am a visitor in this world
without expectation.

© K Paige Medina 10/11/2016

The Good Dream

On Colombia

One of the joys of living
Must be
To crack things that are whole
And to push over
The tall things we have built,
Watching them
Break
Shatter
Into the smallness of themselves.
Do we feel stronger
In chaos?
Perhaps it is the false purpose,
The lightning licked
Sense of self
That we seek
When we give in to our
Death drive
And end things we’ve begun.

But then,
There is also
Some quiet motif
That there are those who
Stubbornly
Hold fast to the light,
And to the creation
Of beautiful things.

Shaking hands in white shirts,
Their
Obstinate fingers lacing quietly
Over the mouth of history,
Bidding it be silent
A moment,
Men promised a nation
Half punch drunk from too much
War and solitude
A morning of peace.
And perhaps it is merely
Shadows performing their macabre dance
Like peace usually is–
Perhaps it is a dream.
But in its unobtrusive hope
Let it be;
It is a good dream.

© K Paige Medina 9/27/2016