Now and yesterday under the same
foot treading across dry stream
warp and whoop of braid golden
weft woven from times olden
damage created and healed both
in the mixed texture that bathes
coal and flower in identical dirt.

To music of another generation
the daughter and the granddaughter spins
she thinks all there is to dancing
is the letting out of her night flight
a ladybug across a checkerboard
smiling and frowning on alternating
colors with no strategies hidden.

My moments speak of the sky
in a language of levels none reachable
while sitting I am aspiring
while walking my nose turns blue
having been transported from coast
to coast in desire and personality
days are no longer in a row.

Life is a shell of eggs arrayed
across the strings of a guitar and through
the tensions that a tendon can hold
every blade of grass each weed
reaches up toward the same heaven
I swing my moods and refuse to count
the beats of how long it has taken.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
This entry was posted in poem, poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Momentia

  1. huzaifazoom says:

    You refusal to count the beats speaks again of the old alliance between the poet and the sky and the weeds and the ladybug across the checkerboard and their refusal to be spoken of without reference to the others.

    • mrsorenson says:

      Yet, our independence is mixed up creatively with our dependences. We must admit after all we are the weeds. Or maybe I am just talking about my new poem. all the best

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