untitled pyramidic poem

I
a m
y o u
h a v e
a m o n g
h a r d e r
t h o u g h t
b r a n c h e s
s t r u g g l e s
r e j o i c e !

Open The Box

1

Open the box


See? It fits



in two parts





Hand and eye



Will, Vision



Patience and





your resolve





•





In your hall

wrapped cool


in black fur






a first home







this warming


mother scent




you remember





Soft embrace

in a nightly









Dear desired





I have asked


patiently to



speak to you





but you have


not answered








Goddess then



A frost just


asked when a


lady walking



warm wrapped

in black fur


passed again

by this wall


arresting an

overfull man



rounding the

corner by an

archway over

a flower bed



where a path



laid by some

gardener who



was tendered
as he tended

to passion's

moving thing



Proving thin

can grow fat


where joy in

labour joins


method to an

intent as it

leads to the

order sought


conscious or
not. Does it

much matter?



Egg or bird?



The thing or
the thought?







Home is what

we whispered


as we lay by

warm hearths



where gentle

speaking was



the order of

the air with

which breath

passed forth



returning to

our enriched

hearts where



our loss was



gladly, that



one unwanted

thing itself



we'd yearned

to be rid of







Overfull man





rounding the

corner by an

archway over

a flower bed



arrested one

warm wrapped

lady walking



and wondered



who arrested

whom? Flower

strewn petal

arrangements



lay on black

narrow berms



of earth. In

the electric


lighted lawn

grass strips

and loam was



in them both



one filigree

fine pattern



which petals

concurringly

did complete







Imagination?



Projection's

perceptions?



Structure of

reality? and



what then? a

solution? an

answer? plan



of assembly?







Instructions












Reading them










What a chore













A walk close

to this wall



could change

our thinking






Near a white

plaster wall


full-charged

with current




an entranced

trunk stands

balancing on

one foot. On



the hairs of

the arms and

throughout a

whole inward

frame I feel



gripped by a


gods buzzing

bristling of

pure force--








Are we ready



for jolting?








Come on then



bring 'em on



those little



extra pieces



pierce amour



full-armored



rattling all

organs which



you threw in

furtively of


an afternoon



but searched

to construct



in day again



after nights



vain, hoping



that when at

midnight, at



its stroking



these pieces



extra pieces



may assemble

themselves a



fit model--a



flying thing









For all toys



and even joy



seem in this

mortal realm

to just rust



dust, as did

flying's son

when the boy

fell aground



while called

forth from a

dream to fly



an action to

which intent



grave itself



must lead us

to a testing

toying model







Sighing sign



singing by a



soaring wing









The open box



hollowed out

to fit these

photographic



images, long

cherished in

lonely dusks



where violin



music called

from strings



recalled the

deep springs



from which a

memory draws



this antique

plastic wing

back to hand









Vision, will

and patience









Your resolve

to fashion a



remembrance:



an aeroplane









2

Open the box

one birthday

and you will

find there a

swirling ice

cream freeze



beautiful an

image beheld

as it begins

to melt into

an icy glaze






Last night's

kiss, caress


at cock crow

flew, though

every pore's

mouth sang a

song its ear



perfect knew






It seems sad

perhaps it's

natural that



our rise and

shine to the

world's work


should spell

an exit from

Eden's realm



where a wall



broken piece

by piece was



dissolved in

our electric

charge as it

wrought that



flesh change

exchange and



which ending



was replaced

by a need to



open the box



in the world


and organize

these pieces



12 character

per verse--a

little flute



trembling in

the throat a



chord played

from a bough



bowed from a

bellied bole



aimed upshot

to His cloud



from where a

golden misty

rain fell up



from a heart



the leaf let

fall up from

a mouth. Old



newspaper on

the pavement



twisting and



a paper bird



winding rose









Up! Up! came

calling when

man was then

youth and an

airplane sky

bloomed blue

and rose new

within him a

sighing song

you remember













See? it fits






Youth in age

Age in youth



Lovers lying

loving truth



Man with God

Songs within



Seed in womb

we all begin



Babe in arms

Arms embrace



All one Soul

face to face









Goddess then



who taught a

bough-broken

baby's swing

support when

cut could be

an ell stick



Hollowed out



the template

being you--a

little flute



Also the apt

divining rod

be fashioned



attracting a

water-wooden

source to it






One daughter

then you are



as childless



the pregnant

messenger to

deliver seed






To childless

men you tell

such arts as

men may need

to till them



all men as a

crop to soar



into blood's

fertile core



so that in a

drear moment



a word would

chime as the

phrase least

remembered--



Note next to

one unheeded



the one lost












Goodbye then



Simple words

remembered--



Goodbye kiss



The deed our

intention to



return to us



from I and I



the pleasure



as you liked

to say--that



anticipation



of cherished

moments I am

slow to know



as your mind

all mornings



a hot coffee

cup unbrewed












You are best



latest, long

day followed

in whistling

conversation



as I've seen

you there at

fence picket

by bird cage



a sound come

from between

your teeth--



chirping, in

a sweet tone






You stood up






rose tip toe






to sew songs

to the wings

of songbirds









What then is

our rankling

reticence--a

wrangling in

defence that

marries with

an ill habit

of regret, O

solitude out

of which the

soul seeks a

door--desire

the thin key

to unlock it



Desperate of

acts! You're

spore; blown

alone a leaf

in the drift

where vacuum

sucks, hurls

spiralling a

spar-stem in

gusts toward

an avoidance






A bitterness




The taste an

unlikely one

to better us



marring what

beauty, sent

to us from a

red hot Mars



and O, Venus



a warming of

breath's lip

slid-slipped

breast's tip

across chest



glided crush

dust, O dust

without love









The gas tank

an affection

machine near

empty desert

sands scrape

a bared soul









Two hands at

a waist belt

buckle flash

trapped dark

excitement a

disgust with

horror mixed

and pleasure












So she stood

next morning

at the glass



an old dress

hanging from

a rusty wire



The holes of

her bathrobe

a spider web



masking such

odd exulting

secret power















Betrayed, he

you betrayed



trusting not

this passion

fleeing from

fleet Apollo



following at

flight speed



clumsily, in

song's ardor



And your ear

a split limb



concealed in

a dark arbor









Praying thus

for a kindly

father's aid



a frightened

quaking form

clung rooted



forever cast

as the waxen

green laurel






•






Here our way

forks from a

forest floor












Whitest this



a lily grows

under acorns












Needles fall

from spruces









Cone at pine



tip branched



here topples









Seeks a soil









Sends a root



shoot to sky









branching in

one filigree





air and tree












Scantling in

half-light--



border light



separateness









Sweetness us



the lips are

still tingle



tart and the



fingertip to

fingertip to

squeeze; the

ten fingered



temple built



of two hands






Up above the

wood rafters



The two beer

on the table









Tingling lip



still ghosts







With them we



will play to





© 2001, 2020 Dan Goorevitch

The World Is

The world is

in spite its



seeming size

just a mural



and its wall

the mind, is



its mountain

to scale. If



she said, we

have courage



then come up

dear, ascend

Caterpillar Boy

UP AND down
grey boughs

caterpillar

boy zigzags
up sidewalk

parkin' lot

is, already
in his mind

a butterfly

Midas's Song

The tower of
counted coin

the wheat of
my granaries

A paved road
for the cart

and the oxen
provided for

My men fitly
fed, attired

civil-minded
and mannered


•


Olive groves
in abundance

the orchards
fig and plum

Meat, fleece
of the lambs

Hecatombs of
fatted boars

A black bull
for the gods

Pyres raised
to the ether


•


Lush forests
yield timber

my shipyards
all business

Dawn to dusk
my potteries

the painters
well-trained

Black beasts
wrestle with

Heracles, in
red outlines


•


And my ships
bearing gold

to pay hands
--all skills

The guilds a
philanthropy

by every man
who advances

the pregnant
contour, hue

the craft of
his ancestor


•


And I savour
rich texture

of both clay
and tapestry

Spice of the
foreign land

Cardamom for
a full table

Exotic cloth
for the wife

Peace--in an
orderly life

•


And my slave
is well-paid

his work not
too exacting

mind or body
not punished

if compliant
with the law

In every way
I am liberal

and civility
is my temper


•


And twilight
brings larks

to my garden
and vineyard

My forsythia
fresh yellow

Lilacs bloom
by the roses

Clematis and
ivy climb up

green crotch
of the trees


•


My starlings
flit & flirt

coquettes to
my eye, sore

bent over my
many ledgers

Line by line
the dull ink

this concern
and that one

Deluge after
drought, yet


•


My daughters
in fine wool

my sons hale
and handsome

The children
of my babies

the clenched
little fists

red-faced in
ornate tears

laughing are
pure delight


•


These are my
soil, my air

root, branch
shoot, bloom

quick growth
of my summer

wool blanket
to my winter

The arteries
of my health

and the pump
of my wealth


•


These hew my
soul's shape

No ink shows
it in tables

yet an order
built up and

in every way
sustained by

the tower of
counted coin

the wheat of
my granaries


•


Float, float
up to heaven

Midas's pure
sprung psalm

Holy Olympus
on its mount

down-clouded
azure, white

but its gods
heard "gold"

and "me" and

nothing else

© 2002 Dan Goorevitch