Poetry?

A line from where

/ simonsalento / Leave a comment

There’s the picture on the big church ceiling
where the older fellow reaches for the hot young thing.
Got it? Well, forget the picture and focus on the fingers –
after all, it’s the gap that stays in our memory.
So, their fingers don’t touch and the sky shines through –
what does that make you think I wonder?
(Rhetorical question by the way.)
It made me think of our fingers pointing
that imagined day on the soft-sand beach
pointing together
pointing to the sky
scratching a chalk-white cloud line across the chalky blue.
Two heads, two hearts, two hands, one line.
A line from where to somewhere
A line that never ends.

I hear my words in my voice

/ simonsalento / 2 Comments

I hear my words in my voice.
Of course.
But if you then roll them round your tongue,
smooth sour sweet pebbles of thought I have,
are they still mine or are they now yours and yours only?

There lies the man who will not hear his words
repeated by another.
He closes his ears and eyes.
Another’s interpretation must be
of and in itself
a wrong one
and this dissonance will misshape the future.

But I am willing to take a risk.
Words past written are the past
and your voice overtaking is just one of many.
I shall sit and record and listen and wonder
and perhaps never write again.