Adelekeepsall

It's one of those days...

"Who Tolerates the Touch"


Who tolerates the touch of palm and fingers
Triggers of the tympanum's lover's voice,
The involuntary arch of eyebrows, that choice
Of recognition dresses doubt that lingers
Yes a while on what once was until it reconfigures
Long enough to serve the summons, reaction's invoice,
Undesired but necessarily what is required; a void
Is not an option to the unbelieving mind. Ligatures
Every particle seeks are sealed with audience, weight,
And purpose in immortal cycles that begin and end
In memory, its regeneration suspends
Its own belief and use within its measured time.
For him who wills cannot resist nor hesitate.

- Poem is by Once.

I do not write in verse tonight, though if I ever wrote in verse it would be news to me because rhyming and meter never quite settled into my mind, because there are sea songs and shanties that have taken over all cadence I might muster. The form of songs cannot be borrowed here, it is too hard to set it down, so I look to their lyrics in their storied form and think of tales that might not have endings. Like the god who lay down a cloak to make land and found his enemy breaking up his new-found territories to make islands I find only mentions of plot and character left over from the tales.
Tomorrow a poem, tomorrow perhaps a story, for tonight snatches of choruses.

It has been one of those days.

"Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you're better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes."

Finally I come here to the closing verse
And it seems again that you have overreached
Achieving conclusion where others cannot see,
they sit so far behind your impressive position.

Should the first phrase ring with satisfaction?
Or has that never been our bed?
Perhaps with raging tongues of wrath,
But again we've never set ourselves to that.

In speaking should the hero bow conscientious
Of the smiling emblem drawn up before his face?
Perhaps our emblem woman should lend a hand
To raise our fallen hero once again?

Or should we turn to matter more philosophic
And ask in whining tone whether god, man is?
Will mention of sad retraction or cold regret
Fulfill the poetic demand now fully unmet?

And so in hoping to equal you I've done
Four verses more than I had meant to pen,
But have not caught you, held your hand, or met
So far beyond my verses yours now rest.