Sabresun

165

Name: Matt
Age: 44
Gender: Male

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Me getting older.

Why not visit me and our other poets
@ All in a pen

Wordpress

My Wordpress Blog thing- Unraveling

Unraveling

Of lost Celtic tunes.

Mystic in voice,
notes from another shore
linger on when they can.

Reminding of strong limbs,
rolled sleeves
now in faded garment pale,
when lutes were loud,
golden and fullsome
as a bright harvest moon.

Mandolins carried upon backs
of wandering musicians,
they were hardy fellows
to say the least,
and their apprentice tunes,
melodies of night wonder,
traveling daytime dreams.

Forget-me-not songs
of how one wildflower
in a field full of red poppies,
found in contrast, another.

~

MrRabbitinthe field

Thumbprints (in nonsense you find the occasional truth)

"Being overly selective
can make doors
appear much smaller"
said the rabbit to Alice.

And the world is placed
under a microscope at times
too much too often,
thought Alice abstractedly.

"You slide what remains
beneath the looking glass,
and strive for focus trying
to make some sense
out of just how jabberwocky
certain things can be,
like a tip of a thumb
who forgets it possesses fingers."

"Discoveries always
come with odd contents
of unique appetites,
they are the opposite
to eat-all-you-can buffets."
continued the rabbit.

Alice frowned,
she wasn't at all sure
quite what that meant,
but thought the rabbit might
have ingested something
out of the ordinary.

He went on,
"They can often make
my hands fingerless.
My thumb, hungry
to pull out the new drawer."

"But you never had
any fingers to begin with,
and least of all, a thumb"
considered Alice.

The White Rabbit thought
this very true, yet frankly saw
no reason why it should
stop him from doing anything
any differently in the least.

~

Decisions of the imaginative sees

The white sprayed surge,
of distant lapping waves,
the wind, breezing
a stalking, feisty tiger,
following behind the ears,
bristling ideas
as contrasting as stripes.

This sense is perhaps
akin to a crystal lain
just under a water's surface;
in the imagination,
a towering subterranean
mountain reflection,
beyond range of any
obtainable depth, of which
the visible glint is but the
uncovered snow tip.

You know the rest is there,
unseen, unbelievable or not.

It can give a certainty inside,
that transports you away
to gulls flown by tidal breezes
way, way out to frozen ice sea,
where they pick up icicles
in their beaks to fly south.

And simultaneously leave you
cast ashore with the bends of life
to adjust back to, thawing
water running from cupped hands.

Whether it is quite drinkable
is entirely up to yourself.

~*~