uncluttered soul

finding peace in the midst of chaos

Let’s Skip The Elwah

“Children and lunatics cut the Gordian knot, which the poet spends his life patiently trying to untie” …Jean Cocteau

Many times the blank page has drawn me into a world of discovery. What appears to be emptiness waits patiently for words that will playfully attempt to explain who I am, why I am here, and what I alone see with my eyes.

I am not so deceived to believe that anyone cares, and am well aware that any quest to understand the workings of my mind to be anything but fail safe.

Undaunted I welcome the adventure, thrilled when the journey brings opportunity, and humbled when inevitable change creates sadness and tears.

Fear alone has power enough to quiet the singing of the lark, but fearless dreams will awaken an unstoppable spirit of curiosity and imagination.

When I embrace my place in the Universe I remember that I am OK.

What a wonderful thought. I feel like ten thousand souls, and welcome the peace that comes with silent conversation.

I have never written a poem alone, yet every word I’ve allowed to emerge has come from nowhere but myself.

My sister encouraged me to share my observations and thoughts that find their expression in playful poetic ramblings.

When I was younger I used to build sprawling cities in the front yard with Lincoln Logs. It didn’t matter that someday they would disappear.

Nothing has changed.

***

The Fooled One,

 or as I like to call it,

Let’s Skip The Elwah

***

I was once a great fisher of salmon,

regal in my angling attire,

which ensured great success, and feasting

from the bounty of the River Lyre.

There was no defense from futility,

as patterns of flies in my vest

were sure to dumbfound, and anger these fighters

soon fooled by the tools of my quest.

With fly rod at one, I focused, then shot

the tight looping line toward a point of decision.

No fish could resist an egg sucking leech

presented with such random precision.

I heard splashing and thrashing upriver.

A more experienced reader of streams

was slipping and sliding, informing the fish

he was nearing the dreamer of dreams.

The fooled one fought hard,

as I kept my rod high, but alas, I was no king.

My rod bent low, then suddenly free

swam away the conquering spring.

I withdrew from the battle,

turning downriver, surging with growing emotion

as my stumbling, bumbling carried me closer

to the rumbling sounds of the ocean.

At first sight of swells born beyond the horizon,

charging against an impregnable shore,

I sat silent, immortal, with reverent regard

for each vanquished wave that would rise nevermore.

The storm ravaged log shuddered beneath me.

What once was my world again shook my senses.

For a moment, I traversed the curling flatness,

an addiction, a sweetness, no consequences.

While the crashing contours awakened desire,

at the mouth of the Lyre one could plainly see,

that the well traveled waves, and stories they break,

were now regal fishers of me.

***

Cary West

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November 15, 2011 - Posted by | poetry

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