lundi 4 juillet 2011

The Truth That Binds

Mother Yasoda binds Krishna...

When is there sleep,
before or after poetry?
Or is it found in the in-between states
when I am slumped over my computer
falling into a long line of z's?
Startled awake, trying my best but again it's
zzzzzzzzz or nnnnnnnnnnnn,
Always the same restlessness,
Brain trained to the end of a caboose,
switchbacking from one side to the other,
Left, right, jumping the track in a manic furor
as if the next poem will reveal the Truth,
All the overstated angst,
All the understated joy,
God, perhaps, in Her Universal Form.
And if I knew the Truth
would it save me from myself,
eradicate the redundant needs of this body?
Or would it rather, like a loving Mother,
tell me a story about Temperance
and bind me?

5 commentaires:

Hazey a dit…

For you, poetry seems to be whenever you breathe: undeniable and part of your vibrations... XXX

moigo a dit…

Ahh, what the brain needs, a restricting but comforting embrace. Lovely poem.

Moineau En France a dit…

thanks, guys. love you both... xoxoxoxoox


And if the truth would be known would one stop poetry? The next poem will only search for truth and by then if the existence is there truth will have another dimension and a poetry will happen again.Why is there the need to know the truth why not the need to be the truth.

Moineau En France a dit…

oh, exactly... accepting one's truth is part of being the truth. xoxoox