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Array ( [sid] => 184801 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Waiting For The Bat [time] => 2018-01-16 17:49:43 [hometext] => Musing as the perfect dusk demands [bodytext] => Dvorak flows, floats toward shore of this dusky, winter day,
tinged white, softer for waning light; so calm, twinkling, a word,
as if to say, “Spell, enchanted spell, I bid thee go away”, now
alone again with dying light, canyon’ed voices shuffling in a herd.

Where does a poem sit in soliloquy, whispering for life,
eager pen scratching as a chicken three days unfed,
a struggle to regain but a sliver of youth’s defanged strife,
when words were solid silver, bludgeoning the senses with every sentence read.

Did this thing I’ve become, mute in ceaseless chatter,
scrambling to regain just a tiny slice of that younger intensity,
before I knew what least scintillates is what truly matters,
the incongruity of a country boy tossed, barked about a bustling city.

Overalls and straw donned once a year, a nod to me before, oh,
city, ant farms of people pushed, molded this pinata
of tears and laughter, dampened in the display front of eternity’s store
of grimy windows demanding the pinata bat to release my candy.

[comments] => 1 [counter] => 69 [topic] => 69 [informant] => invierno [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => poets )

Waiting For The Bat

Contributed by invierno on Tuesday, 16th January 2018 @ 05:49:43 PM in AEST
Topic: poets

Dvorak flows, floats toward shore of this dusky, winter day,
tinged white, softer for waning light; so calm, twinkling, a word,
as if to say, “Spell, enchanted spell, I bid thee go away”, now
alone again with dying light, canyon’ed voices shuffling in a herd.

Where does a poem sit in soliloquy, whispering for life,
eager pen scratching as a chicken three days unfed,
a struggle to regain but a sliver of youth’s defanged strife,
when words were solid silver, bludgeoning the senses with every sentence read.

Did this thing I’ve become, mute in ceaseless chatter,
scrambling to regain just a tiny slice of that younger intensity,
before I knew what least scintillates is what truly matters,
the incongruity of a country boy tossed, barked about a bustling city.

Overalls and straw donned once a year, a nod to me before, oh,
city, ant farms of people pushed, molded this pinata
of tears and laughter, dampened in the display front of eternity’s store
of grimy windows demanding the pinata bat to release my candy.

Copyright Â© invierno ... [ 2018-01-16 17:49:43]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: Waiting For The Bat (User Rating: 1 )
by softerware on Friday, 19th January 2018 @ 04:41:39 PM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

You speak eloquently of the sharp, vivid words of our youth that cut scars across the vacant silence; now softened and homogenized by overuse and age.
WHERE DOES A POEM SIT IN SOLILOQUY, WHISPERERING FOR LIFE...what a line!
Should be spoken from a balcony as a love sonnet!
We search for the intensity of our youth, while true grace prefers the richer warmer, glow of embers to the licking flames. A green sapling branch has a coltish beauty; a weathered wood wears its history on its aged face. We also show our seasoning; the gallant and gracious man to the prancing cockswain; the writer to the actor. Each has its glory, and its time, and its place, and none need be mourned.
softerware

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