Torn clothing.
Broken pottery.
Shattered glass.
Hurtful talk.
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About me
- HK Stewart
- I grew up in Christian fundamentalism, went to hell, came back, became a Presbyterian then a Buddhist Presbyterian, and now I'm a profane Presbyterian Zen Taoist -- not that I'm into labels or anything. Here's what I've learned so far: The more you know, the more you know you don't know.
3 comments:
The Rock
[After Stevens]
Even at the highest point, I cannot reach the stars,
But stars were not what I was searching for –
Wings, perhaps, or the sensation of flight,
Gliding on insubstantial breath, peacemaker
In the family, head among the clouds.
At the highest point, the air thins out,
And the trick is never to look back,
Lest the heart turn to salt from abuse,
Or stare directly in the sun, but to glance
For what might come over the horizon
And pound the earth, destitute as hope
Welcoming the unknown with knowable
Signs, certain there is something
That cannot be broken down
Beyond the breaking of a word,
From its consensual beauties,
When all I needed was to take a walk
Away from home, and landed here,
At the highest point, that I did not recognize
Marked the furthest I could go,
Because how paltry were the things
I had accomplished from what I had intended,
And the clutter lay at my feet an abandoned
Campfire, another memory
I had hoped snow could obliterate,
Since it came to me in pieces to connect,
And I no longer could see my feet
Or touch my toes, among family plots,
Having buried both parents. Now I am
Here, a stranger at the highest point,
Hoping for a magnetic draw to pull
Me through, the wind having gone
From my sails, all direction lost,
While the rock, which is a butte
And a body, erodes even its echo
Though what I long for are other voices
Taking over the narrative, offering
Comfort as if they cared, but cold
Shears the ears at this altitude.
I have been sent out to find the feather
That will complete my wingspan
And give a peacock its tail
Or a sundial its shadow
Here at the highest point
I shall ever attain.
{Disposable Poem June 7, 2010]
Dr. Mike
Dr. M:
Bravo.
H. K.
Oil. Don't forget SPILLED oil.
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