Plea to Your Words

A plea to your words

by Shelly Sharon

Small insects dive

right into my coffee cup

in a heroic death of sorts.

I feel they are showing me

that nonsense can be rid of just like that,

and I can be left to enjoy

the sweetness

of life.

You served me with your exposed naked heart

sweating lack of confidence

emitting precious love,

so I could lick my wounds

secreting saliva

to patch the morning’s bright promise.

Can one feel sadness

and hold on to positive thoughts

at the same time?

This I contemplate while watching

a thick and dense layer of clouds

enveloping feather-like ones.

How many adjectives are there

for clouds?

Are they really as innocent and light

as the human symbol

wishes for them?

They are a map of the untouchable.

Dancing around the visible of the invisible depth

hinting at what would be left

if we simply let

unrecognised spaces

live without a name

prick it with no shame

ebb and glow on a divine flow

of hope.

Hope is not without a struggle.

When you drown

it is the struggle that keeps

hope

floating above the surface.

I travelled once to Assisi to find inspiration

to lighten my heavy heart.

Instead I found a hat.

Even the clouds can't take away

the brightness of the sun,

even the clouds have no power

to conceal the promise of the light

that wants to shed its colours upon the earth.

When I met you I didn't know

what I wanted from you,

I only knew what I wanted

for myself.

Is it always like this with love?

The neighbour downstairs

utters in contentless calls,

only embedded meanings

in sound making

aoooow

aaaaiiiii.

And she?

She understands.

This is probably the nature of love.

Love understands

and is at the same time indifferent

to that which colours her.

Like a cloud she's heavy or light,

concealing or revealing.

Complete complacency

towards the world living

under her wings.

It seems that she doesn't even need

to complete a circle,

as you wrote in your journal

days before India.

Unlike the tree

Love travels back at each moment to her

original form.

To a primal time

before the transformation she underwent

to be a tool

or a symbol

of human passion.

Beads of tears not shed

before you reach the lake.

It’s only when you swim

you remember that you

are afraid.

Fear is flying like the song of a bird.

It is here at morning and night

disappears in the stream of the glow.

Prick this moment

hang it on the wall,

so the framed landscape could be there

forever.

It will gain value with

the years.

And people will ask:

What did he want to express?

Marvelling on a thought

that sprang out of a wet lake

even the breeze didn’t seem

to have a drop of rain

from north to south of the lake.

To tell you once more that your talent

is yours?

That your words playing the

accord of the heart -

mine,

theirs

and probably yours-

in a generous lightness?

Instead, this time, I've decided

to respond in a poem.

And this

is how

it begins…..

*

Published on Rebelle Society