Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Tree Trimming

A venerable vignette
a virtual return
to new endings
old beginnings
and the
phosphorescent
pulse
of a glow worm.

An incandescent retreat
a coup against the cheat
the neon
the LED
and the
trite.

In the innocence of hushed
tones
of lush creeks
and blushed
poems
and cheeks of a
child
thrice blessed

is a Christmas for me
is a light out to sea
blinking red
and green
for the distressed.

And the prow maiden
will dip
through the fray and the foam
and the seeker
will sow
in the clay and the loam
but the potter
will turn
not for me.
Not for me.

5 comments:

wyethhouse said...

There's a sadness about this poem where that which seems festive and alluring is not found by the subject. It's intriguing and makes me ask "why"?

KGT said...

Why?

wyethhouse said...

Why doesn't the potter turn for the writer?

KGT said...

I don't know if there exists a potter for the writer...as for the character/voice of the poem, I think it has something to do with a drowning feeling, a feeling of being awash in superficiality, and of loss and despair...all these things as ornaments to be hung on a figurative tree.

"Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment."
Carl Sandburg

wyethhouse said...

Thanks for opening the door a little further. I appreciate seeing those brief moments through your words. The way you write is intriguing and keeps me guessing, sometimes connecting with those moments.