The Poet Watches © 2014 Bo Mackison
the poet watches
the branches shake the yellowed leaves
she watches the leaves scatter,
some rustle along the path
others snag in a ragged patch of grass.
she watches. this coming season of cold and decay
of the first snowfall, the winds, the frozen landscape
exposed, sharp silhouettes of branches.
frost-bitten garden sagging under the weight of
dead flower stalks and ice crusted snow.
she watches, and silence breaks open
so much change. yet. alive.
writing from the center
in the center of the temple, a labyrinth
in the center of the labyrinth, desertlands.
sun ablaze, high noon heat
anxiety dissipates in the arid breeze.
where is the safe space?
a perimeter protected by cacti tangled,
various structures and textures
occasional blooms, fuchsia-orange roses.
hummingbirds dart amidst bees.
safe. protected. alone, heart beat though erratic,
I find protection. from whom? from what?
cocoon, hide within the dark. they say.
if i do not speak, I cannot be heard, cannot be hurt
by words, or looks, or judgements.
i cannot be denied, cannot be touched.
no feelings exist for no one knows.
yet
it is when i am not seen, when i am not heard,
the pain spreads like toxic fluids touched on fire by the sun
Refreshed © 2014 Bo Mackison
there is a place of safety within,
my words my protection.
my knowledge my salvation.
my awareness my life line.
step into the world,
ablaze. speak. act. be visible.
fire burns away old perceptions which pronounce
i am not enough. flames explode,
I step from the ashes, out of the charred remains,
step into the dawn, carrying the empty urn.
