these things are for the gods
for a breathing soul
can’t know how it’s held
no visible handles in its choppy planes
a shell-less egg
balanced
just
so
above a tealight
you punish for inventories kept
chastise for reveals
for confession
admission, admonition
demolition
this
the gem, the carbuncle
is not my story to tell
nor yours to cart
such, such weight
your little soul holds
such blistering now
over easy
so, murmur me, you
this infinite
mass-above-flame
and I
feather-eared, gate-teethed
will lighten you in passing
image and poetry © Alison Boyd.
poems, prose and pathways
Writer | Artist
Fatos e Curiosidades sobre a natureza e tecnologia
Meditations on Art and Life
"per l' allegria il pianeta nostro è poco attrezzato. Bisogna strappare la gioia ai giorni futuri "
a resource for moving poetry
Linking collage work to the meaning of personal and universal symbols.
This is my adventurous story about buying, designing, and renovating homes in ITALY
Even the idea of a secret is a mystifying one. I think you captured that well.
Thank you Karin 🙂 I’m intrigued by the idea that secrets are things so intangible – we learn to keep them, not tell them, and we’re punished for both keeping and telling. Interesting article here on the subject that sparked the poem: http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/lifematters/5029112
Thanks for the comment 😉