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
