If I were music
I’d be all over the score
Incoherent – no cadence
No rythm nor harmony –
A noise – mismatched sounds
Like the Orchestra tuning the instruments
Just before the concert –
The intention of calm melody
Being declared…
If I were a painting
Cubist I would be
With precise geometric forms
In an altered manner –
Landing ground for the chaotic stance
That reigns over the internal order
The colors of dried flowers
Proclaiming the inevitable – end
So we can complete the cycle – so round and circular
Thus reaching the beginning
If I were a tapestry
I would have seedy thread
A sign of fatigue that comes with time
Feet that walk the long walk of life
And found rest in me.
My stitches would be spun
By old women hands –
Quiet – arthritic – contorted bones
conquered by the mighty needles
With every stitch a story
Forming an image
Searching the memory
What an irony
The elder can only sew
The remembrance of the wound
I am not painting, music, nor art
I’m not whole – nor part
But I spread myself – in disasters
I don’t try to hide what ignites me
4 comments
Comments feed for this article
September 27, 2011 at 1:47 AM
Cynthia Ann Katon-Alfonso
i liked this one,thank you!
September 27, 2011 at 11:15 AM
pacatatu
Thank you! Come back soon!
October 4, 2011 at 4:49 AM
Heather Whitley Gibson
it’s really late so excuse my breivty….Thank you and Well Done!
December 1, 2011 at 8:07 AM
Angela
I love the dance in this poem, lovely!