Lake and Sword

Posted: September 12, 2014 in Emerson Challenge


– sat, unwilled, unfocused

– wet cafe, flat steel grey wet lake, dripping drops, gentle tin
spooling somewhere, flat white, speckled milk, first for a while
and a slight body fear drinking this.

– stomache, ears rumble, attune to this, this gentle rain and
distant conversation, adept with nature, liking walls, the lack of,
the blue unvarnished brown, still the lovely grey, a tinge of cold,
still around and space, space for this: unless it hurts it does
not register.

– this bed world becoming grey, can we say that this is now OK,
to rest to feel less pain, to reap rewards and stay the strain or can
we see that strain’s a must as we ease our way into the next, this
next stage, of life, of ceaseless fight, and yet surrender also life, this
lack of fight, and fight this bed from in and out, without a shout,
without a sign, without a hedge, without a doubt, what once was
said, yet barely read, an open thread, an open wound, a wound in bed
that drags us out into a world that does not want its rote disturbed,
its sleeping spell that drags again, and though I see I still feel pain,
’cause that is all I can explain, in gentle rain a drowning lake,
a sword untaken, mistake, mistake, just watch and wait and let it
bake and leave unturned and let it make a world’s mistake,
my pain is not within this lake this sword will not light path to take,
it stays upright, within its base, my base is also so awake and painful
watching this live lake, I cannot touch, I cannot take, should not
disturb this no-mistake.

– this sword awake, not mine to take, but just observe this cool grey
lake and watch the rain clean all again, clean eyes, clean drain and
clear the pain, and clean right through and let it drain and let it fill right
up again, with pain, with path, with empty lake, with same mistake, all seen awake and let this lake filter life awake and ripple gently bring what it
takes, delivering its no-mistake, to shore each time, upon each break
and lands in rhyme and breeds its life upon this shore, cleaved from
this sword, free from this mind, to find to find its own reward, its own
pain-kind, we celebrate and leave alone

– and hear the rain caress the stone.




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s