Sacre Poeticia

image borrowed from bing

Sacre Poeticia

You have suffered with emotional winter,
nothing can be born of unmoving ice;
and there you exist, high, cold, and alone,

like a mother glacier, fearing
the time of calving, safe
in your isolation.

Lady, hide no longer, for I have
the poet’s privilege of pulling
out that one steadfast lethargic log

within the frozen jam of tearful trees
covering your heart, perched painfully
above the gray depression pond,

deep as a frigid fjord, lying glass smooth,
dead white, just behind it; the magma verses
creating a lovely thaw, trickle, early movement.

I have offered you the flaming dagger
of language, and you have joyfully plunged
it into your swelling bosom of snow,
rolling up sensuous clouds of steam
into the still air; soon I say

big pieces of yesterday
will run hotly down your stony cheeks,
merging into a puddle picaroon,

racing across muddy water as the wet cheek
booty multiples, then merges into a stream,
then swells into a wild raging river,

rife with happy tributaries, pulling at everything
on its rough banks as it reaches flood stage,
with life’s memories spilling out, boiling
into a tempestuous torrent

of words,
of images,
of tears,
of love.

Please welcome it, covet it, embrace it--
poetry; that sacred place where words
come together with other words.


Glenn Buttkus

March 2012

Listed as #122 over at dVerse Poets-OLN36

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