Array ( [sid] => 144324 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => when I come home... [time] => 2008-08-02 14:11:37 [hometext] => this felt good to write...not exactly sure what it's about though...but then again I'm not sure what any of my poems are about [bodytext] => And when I come home,
I am here, like an infant’s intent
upon his mother–a father can only glide into it,
holding his son’s thin fingers with the care of an elder,

but we are each aware
of the isolated bright specks
in our eyes. We each
duly share a complexity within
complexity–for to understand
the eternal bond of fate is to die
into birth.

Come fetch the diluted booming,
the frank stampeding silence,
wavering into the depths of darkness–a stone
chipped against another is only a fragment of earth
which responds to the moment’s undercurrent,

I break loose, stumbling
through each veil and stir
its filaments. One,
only one crippled discovery waits
to be found, and like a river
never is itself
more than once.

We may step through and feel
its cool wetness, breathe in its fresh mist, and feel
only once, and again
fill our hands with its grace, wither into new directions–Our point
is its own counterpoint,
our pail, a prison–our hands,
our wealth. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 257 [topic] => 73 [informant] => zenmind [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => abstract ) Your Poetry Dot Com - when I come home...


when I come home...
Date: Saturday, 2nd August 2008 @ 02:11:37 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: zenmind
And when I come home,
I am here, like an infant’s intent
upon his mother–a father can only glide into it,
holding his son’s thin fingers with the care of an elder,

but we are each aware
of the isolated bright specks
in our eyes. We each
duly share a complexity within
complexity–for to understand
the eternal bond of fate is to die
into birth.

Come fetch the diluted booming,
the frank stampeding silence,
wavering into the depths of darkness–a stone
chipped against another is only a fragment of earth
which responds to the moment’s undercurrent,

I break loose, stumbling
through each veil and stir
its filaments. One,
only one crippled discovery waits
to be found, and like a river
never is itself
more than once.

We may step through and feel
its cool wetness, breathe in its fresh mist, and feel
only once, and again
fill our hands with its grace, wither into new directions–Our point
is its own counterpoint,
our pail, a prison–our hands,
our wealth.

This poem is Copyright © zenmind


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