the arrival was explicitly late perhaps a thirty minute exercise in deep breathing before the rigors of dog-paddling through family introductions their hand shakes heavy and braced for the reflexive tug
search and translation found in the instinctive nod of sanction written in infinitesimal turn of lip up or down
he journeys from hand to hand finalé of fingertip brushing across palm subliminal theme reads
“I’m still me”
on the far side of the room there is rhythm metered spasm of body and thought sipping coffee with an eye looking out at the world over a precarious rim
finding clarity to the meaning of ‘holding one’s breath’
copyright jeanne rené
************** I don't think I ever posted this here ....
Last Edit: Mar 24, 2014 18:16:01 GMT -8 by jeannerené
If I could consider the 'rhythm' on the far side of the room as rehearsed response, this would fit a wake quite well. Fulfillment of an obligation. Reflections in introspect. Ones own thoughts of the spectacle at hand more than any statement thrown out for examination. I hope my perspective does not offend.
Jeanne: Hello visitors....Thanks for dropping by. Lets revive Poetic Horizons. I'm very tired of Facebook and have never felt comfortable posting poetry there. So look around and register. Lets get this place moving!
Mar 30, 2019 1:55:53 GMT -8
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.