poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

Sunday Liberty

   

The week would gather Sunday to free itself.

 

Each day had a gathering task

one would bring a poem

 

another choose a location and notify the others

someplace they hadn’t been

until they’d been everywhere.

 

A picnic, a party, a wake

a huddle, a cluster, an autopsy;

the days seldom agreed or needed to

though gathering was something like agreement.

 

There was no agenda.  The Polish Parliament

was less fractious.  The dawn came on

in forty shades of orange, the trees edged away

the grass withdrew into its ground 

to demonstrate reversal’s symmetry.

 

Sometimes there was only music;

it needed no undoing.

Never more than a trio but often less

the others listened or seemed to

having nothing more to say.

Less was more, then less, then less than less.

 

A passage incomplete in its completion

marginal, needing other’s silence

to compose its own.  Three pounds of burlap

to make a Buddha of.  The heaviness of days

lightened in new-found patience,

a kindness undiscovered in passage

walking waves, sea-bottoms in unsuspected liberty.

2 Responses to “Sunday Liberty”

  1. Craig Brandis (aka Burl Whitman)

    This is a terrific poem. It is fully realized, self-aware, unpretentiously awesome in its understated observation of our meddlesome need to augment reality, when reality, up to mind including the Buddha, is made of burlap, picnics, autopsies and above all, kindness.

    Reply

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