Dreams

Dreaming

What am I looking for?
A definition—life.
An intuition—death.
Be still. Too short.
Imperfect harmony.
In blooms and trees
untold expressions
of an inexpressible sadness
like alter egos of lost children.
Unfair. Sad. Grieving.
When a sonnet is a Neanderthal
with a grudge and a lyric,
pure fantasy
what can be said?
Life grazes on perihelion’s of ice.
It crashes through permafrost.
In attempting
to encompass it all
we risk sounding
like player pianos
playing the same song
over and over again
until we kiss the last tango goodbye.
Frank O' Hara is gone
and so is Pollock
and Auden and Yeats.
We've got to get back
to the beginning.
Start over again
trolling through darkness
for light until we're trapped
in its net
thrown into the face
of the inexplicable
drinking our breath,
seeking its sustenance
inside our depths
even as it sweeps us up
in the purity of flow,
witness to the ritual
metaphors of life
all love embraces,
awakening revelations
that life is a dream
we need healing from.

Scott Malby

Posted over on A Little Poetry