A Future If We Dare

'All that we are not stares back at what we are.' - W. H. Auden



A birthplace came back: the homeland image.
I'd left, but escapism is fiction,

when the mind is born to stand on one place
of history. Feet are nomads (independent)

on the bottom of bodies. They grasp their
own agendas, staying fixed upon the lights

of ones viewpoint; the city which resides behind the
eyes: cleftnotes rising from said cities.

There is a future and a sentimental projection,
Each one is the hard side and soft side of life,

The gazebo, flipped over and crushed, or
Full of flowers, inviting in its emptiness.

My hands are the hands of family; my mother's hands,
my father's hands, inverted replicas of my own,

matches, as in one flowing species, and
the copies sent out into duplicate worlds.

It is recalling days wrapped in ribbons
or the burgeoning oceans bringing relief

to lives and dusty hearts. To gorge on predictions,
tends to kill, in their deceptive clothing,

or they can uplift one's consciousness till one can
see the burned tops of mountain ranges, or

know they are there; know that, within human grasps,
are peaks to purify the feuding lungs.

Childhood sank: sun into sea. An inner child breathes,
has his way, and the days roll, moved by direction.

by Lamont Palmer

Comments (8)

there is a future and a sentimental projection each one is the hard side and the soft side of life
Dear Sir, your poem is an image of deep thought. I understood less but felt nice about it. I want to share my poems with you. You can try this one: Truth of Creation What will be the future Of the nation If the people keep their attention Towards only one direction If only a wheel is cared The other wheel is punctured And the chariot Of the country Will go in the dust ......................... .......................... Thanks! i'll wait for your response.
Hi LP. What is taking you so long? I am all primed up and nowhere to go. The poem Tiring Day is really for you to serve as a warning. I am really a crazy woman - you just don't know how much. I am sparing you the trouble of encountering the crazy side of me. I want you on the table, your polite self, passing the dishes to me for my inspection and delectation. But we can eat with our bare hands, I would allow you that informality. I thoroughly understand the exasperation of this: Childhood sank: sun into sea. An inner child breathes, has his way, and the days roll, moved by direction.. It is really a delight to be misunderstood, is it not? Just as GV says below, he does not understand one line of your poem, I believe you are ecstatic. When we say something that ordinary people do not understand, they quip, Ah, a poet! That becomes your signature, to be misunderstood. I would like to ask Mr Giorgio Veneto in this regard, What is a very experienced poet?
I really like this one Lamont. Takes me back to childhood days of living carefree. Sooner or later that life had to change and then we have to face the life of growing up and becoming responsible adults. Good write.
Can say about this piece (and those that follow) what Yeats exclaims: And words obeyed my call.
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