Lovers All; I Love The Poets

Real poetry inspires more of the same: you read a few lines,
Concentrating on the words, though really you're thinking
Of the memories triggered; half formed concepts
Which your own mind has been belaboring, in daydreams and sleep-
Even some things you would swear you had never seen before.

An intense itch begins at the back of the eyeballs
And slowly slides down between the eyes
But sometimes this can be instantaneous-
As when, one minute ago, you were watching a twisting cyclone
And the next, you find that you're inside the cyclone; that quickly.

And then something like a predigested sneeze begins to work itself
Back into your brain; it comes to you then
That you're pregnant, and have already felt the quickening
And then the clutch engages and the gears mesh;
The laser beam lights up the encrypted surface.

Time has to stop, right where it is-
You look up to notice that a sacred moment might be happening
Over on the far horizon, but no- you have become the farthest horizon;
And you, the sanctity; and you also, the sun, moon, and heavenly bodies:
You are the world, getting ready to push it's own body out again.

The words and images begin to flow
Like a drain that has suddenly cleared itself,
Just seconds before midnight,
So that the flood is no longer a damnation;
Now it flows freely down your arm, your pen.

Organizes it's own spine, organs, muscles and skin;
Lymph channels and neural divisons:
An artificial intelligence has just given birth to itself
In between the glowing meridians of the page-
And then it opens it's new eyes, and blinks back at you,
Filled up with only your own sense of wonder.

by Patti Masterman

Comments (2)

This is wonderful. You share with your readers the inherent possibilities and relationships that pass us by everyday.
Lovely poem. Thanks for sharing Steve