on grey rainy days,
I'm washed back,
swept down into,
my younger years,
standing in my Grandmother's house,
in her living room,
in the quiet shadows,
of an evening,
looking at a painting on her wall,
a clipper ship,
cutting dark blue waves of the sea,
gulls above the masts,
and perched on the deck,
navigating the black skies,
pushed and pulled,
there was a loneliness,
but a strength of aloneness,
plunging through the churning waters,
to the shore,
a courage to be,
amidst the fear,
amidst the risk,
and merciless storms,
her house is gone now,
the painting too,
I kept it in my mind,
so when my storms come,
I close my eyes to see it.
4 comments:
I remember your grandma running her car until all the snow melted off her windshield.
That is one way to handle a storm.
A dexterous demonstration that, in this Age of Anxiety par excellence, one can take solace in a solipsistic and emboldening self-awareness of being. I need to read this book -- perhaps the positing of a "God Above God" would pull me closer to some form of understanding and recognition.
The best kind of verse -- aesthetic ambiance embedded with a powerful set of ideas.
There is a longing in this, and a soft melancholy.
We ache to know the name of the clipper - but that is not the point . . .
You always inspire me to keep writing. One day I want to write about the clipper and the storms inside of me.
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