A Poem To Our Times

There is a quiver in my heart,

which is looking for a voice

like an outlaw in my soul

and refuses to be stilled.

It bares down on this day

clenching

my jaw weighted like a paperweight

siting inside me and leaving me

wishing I were more stoic,

but I’m not.

I see the small things, which

people wimp out from

or want to be the first

on the block to take

an unnecessary offensive to.

And I think how weak

have we become?

It is unsettling, and locks

me out from not just you, but

from myself.  Why—

I ask over and over?

I look for a Zenlike silence,

but this silence is dense,

uncomfortable, painful

and filled with sorrow.

I ask myself, “If this were

the last chance or

the last moment

to make a choice

What would I do?”

I don’t have an answer.

I escape to La Croix water

and another bowl of soup.

I try and give meaning

To recent things

I heard people say and do,

but it reeks of meaninglessness

And frivolous, self-indulgent

hypocrisy I cannot partake in.

As if people want to be

placed on some ridge

of idealism which

lacks a backbone and

where one can only

smile from with

the body fading

and a set of teeth

left smiling.

And, if I pursue you,

and if I make a real

inquiry into what

has happened to you or

where your ability

for words and dialogue

have drifted off to,

I will only reach voicemail

or sharp words on Facebook

from strange friends saying

what they cannot say elsewhere.

 

And I am unsure of

Answers.

And I am unsure of

What is the right

Question

to be asking?

What would have

the most meaning—

which adventure

singled out

in fusion,

in solitude?

I ask for one note

in a masterpiece

or a dirge

or a symphony to follow.

But, whole scales are missing

composed of all the notes

of unfinished conversations—

moments lost like an asteroid

floating in space and

never touching earth.

©Roseroberta February 2013

 

 

 

 

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