AwakeClosedOpen

Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does - Allen Ginsberg

I am like that crocus in the corner
a gooey center
a light that spills
lip to lip and
petal to petal. I open
like an e.e. cummings poem,
a Whitman blade of grass,
a Spenserian literary wood.
I am made of words you see,
unending phrases which
with their own weight, stand
quivering. I can hear the world
thinking, dreaming, gripping, sinking
into mystery. Into virginal snow blackening
and melted winters penetrated by spring.
You see, I hear singing
when you speak, and you read me like a book;
what a pear we would make, but
I fear the breaking, the heart you
offer. The palms already open; the look in your eyes
when they are  closed, already
sleeping. Awake.
Awake. Awake. Slip that bright light
into the rear pocket of yours
that my hand likes. Such
sweet speaking:
I am new.

Reviews

[Kelley]

Made me think of....
What yonder light ............smiles
A play on Shakespeare kind of.
Your better than most of the writers I have read on here.
Boulder you say? I'm from Colorado too.
Must be in the water...lol
Another magnificent poem thanks for sharing.
Kelley