Reflections in April 18

Painting by Gustav Klimt


Reflections in April 18


Everything seems heterodox,
except Yeats scholars,
The earthquake along a long coast,
The name of the location pressed between
Pages of Moby Dick
Pressed to keep for future and insertion
Into a billet doux redolent
Of misty kisses of misty faces
in Klimt paintings,
Real flesh fierce to become vaporous
In a mosaic milieu of cognac
And shaky arms upsetting silver bracelets
to shine.

Public information, TV, newspapers,
encyclopedias,
Serious conversations about current events,
an NFL draft pick,
And historical happenings during the days
Scherazade was telling her tales
are precluded
From emotive personal comprehension
as being realities,
And thus are relegated
To bins of osscurantism in attics,
cellars, and backrooms
Giving spider webs a foundation.

Much speech, many saying with ardor
and authority what they do not mean
or understand,
But all appears as appropriate
as neural impulses and debris
Convert, recycle into current assertions
And self-contentment.

No use in further complicating the confusion
By having faith in questions
And not being agnostic about answers.

Sand fleas
Buried on
Shore's edges
When washed up by waves
And laved
Thrill with beings
Varnished ivory
And their white legs
Are petite miracles.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Mad Hatters' Review