Cup of Despair
I believe I found Cup of Despair
hidden hung on Life’s abundant tree -
or it found me - hiding in low bough shadows
cringing - naked alone on the Human knee.
There’s a life out there in the mirey clay;
left wandering listless long of late, riding
a big black storm on a cloudless day.
Universal music weaves in and out the air;
my instrument of Life pants breathless, soon
a struggling note blown out of tune.
My Sky Room is vast and mysterious;
on Celestial shelf near the stars and moon
float space junk: my unknown accomplishments.
I mourn the work left in Life undone;
my portion measures the least of them,
good intentions never count for much.
Now the tongue likes to claim my best - tho
my works - a life lived in superficiality and jest.
I’m told.
I’ve - colored my life Rusted Tin - in watery lies
little white sins some thoughtless whim - I’ve
smothered my candle from within.
God’s precious gift grows worn - O lowly worm
now - lost in lost loves lost dreams I squirm I scream;
nothing will cover my unworthy past or sins.
Some place away somewhere now at bay
lay lost souls like me alone afraid
fearful of base waste soiled Bed We Made.
Thinking, take this cup from me!
born torn cloth never made whole;
thy lowly limb severed from Life’s tree,
my impoverished love my mother sin,
my heart adrift unforgiven upon your sea.
Let this be what defines your hidden me;
a dam holding back a river tear
falling from an ocean eye.
Janet Leigh May 2009
Posted over on Poetmeister
1 comment:
Janet, no one else could have the blues so beautifully. This poem is heavy duty, coming out of the poeric ether that holds your vitals, your spirit, some spectral glue, some phantom muse that came to you sad, but drippig with beauty.
In the final gasp before transition, like the first gasp after being expelled from womb darkness, we find ourselves bathed in light and “naked alone”. Gosh how many of us have ridden that /big black storm on a cloudless day/?
And yes, you hear it on the wind, seeping up from inside, swirling warm from outside, that music of the spheres, the music of those multiple dimensions we share our entities’ other, past and present, lives with. I love the concept of your
/Sky Room/ littered with /space junk/your/unknown accomplishments/ for surely they are legion, and motley magical myriad of beams of light, of smiles, of tears, of helping hands. Try and consider that what you mourn as you find yourself closer to the exit/work in Life left undone/ is why so many metaphysical types believe in after life, life between life, past lives. A spirit like yours shines so brightly that Shenandoah seems just over the horizon; we see your light, hear your song. And there is time, for that human measurement of movement is passe, non-essential on the other side of the veil, on the other side of the universe. So bend it, stroke it, kiss it, kick it in the butt; you have all you need. It makes me weep to think, to consider that you have colored your life/ Rusted Tin/ for it still has a sheen like nickel-plating, like chrome bumper guards. If a dream is lost, re-dream it. If a love is lost, go find it, or find another, perhaps even better. Your sadness saddens me, but your heart is buoyant, without parameters, nuclear, the nucleus of who you are, who we see from here. Bless you, and thanks for the dark journey.
Glenn
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