As still to hear, the speaking of a poem
Like ravens in the desert, sadly singing
The pages of a twice-forgotten novel
Within a theatre, the same pics running
And only for confusion is there worry
In wobbling and jerking and in shaking.
Feelings I’ve been having I’m not shaking:
Just what is life, reduced within a poem?
And what is gained from sorrow but more worry?
A memory: a still-young girl is singing
Throughout a grocery store, her errands running,
And her small son, to whom it all is novel.
But now, an aging shelf, a fav’rite novel,
And from the cover, some light dust I’m shaking;
I see her, happy. No more races running,
And mouthing words from William Blake. A poem
About such innocence as once was singing
When she just a child, but clothed in worry.
A tax form on the table she will worry,
Instructions long as any tome or novel;
The nurses stop, their voices fairly singing
To check upon her mood, her gait, her shaking;
Their interchange is sweet – a gentle poem.
In just a minute, two more errands running.
The tracks are there: the trains no longer running.
No passengers to hurry or to worry —
Upon the walls, a short graffiti poem
Whose message might be turned into a novel:
That why should we at fate our fists keep shaking
When we were made for laughing, dancing, singing?
I play for her, I hear her old voice singing:
The tunes of long ago are still there, running,
As she, in time to music’s gently shaking.
A moment clear as glass, and free from worry,
As melody comes new: forever novel,
And lyrical as any child’s poem.
My memories: her shaking,
but then singing —
A poem, said —
a dark young woman running —
A bird released from worry —