Template to extinguish faithism
Copyright 2003 - 2009
Lawrence Willson
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Waiting Word
From a well
I did not dig
I drink
From a mind
not of my own
I think
From a voice
calling me home
I shrink not
I sit just
still and mute
on the brink
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So the time comes sooner or
later when, as a so-called
poet, you have to decide
why so-called? I do wonder.
If I were to step into
your garden would I see what
you see? We sure take a lot
for granted in our seeing.
'Tis true, we are what we are
in love with, and I guess I'm
in love with words, not as marks
on a page but as pointers
Pointing out what stays hidden
otherwise deep within things,
like a stone, or a stare,
a stoney stare, a stare stoned.
A poet is so-called when
she disappears into things
like incense into thin air
cracking the world wide open.
At times I'm present, absent,
just like a poet.
My favorite time of day
Lies dark as night, early naught
When no sound takes up space and
No thing moves about a room
Where no word speaks out of turn
And no breath is lost on me
No reason need be given
There, no understanding sought
No why, wherefore or poorhouse
Fair, and most surely, no who
Wind swishes through trees
like a belle at a grand ball,
dancing the sad night away
As we sit still and mute on the brink,
we watch, and watching we wait to see
if this new president will succumb
to the Achilles heel of the upright beast,
tolerance for the intolerable.
2003 -2009
