Poetry Porch: Poetry

 

RUNNING SECRETLY, SINGING

by Linda Ty-Casper



I must admit: some days beat like a bird
        inside my heart.
Its beak stabs.
Its feathers molt.
And I am left to weep.
Some days, I must admit, come so quietly
I think it is the next day,
         too far away to hurt.
This way, some days grow just as swallows multiply;
        only the tips of their flying touch me.

*

I donít remember
The wind moving deep and still
Full of blooms.
I donít recall the sun swinging
With hungry arms
Among the stones,
Or birds clinging with their beaks
To summer. It could be so.

*

I have trouble realizing how strange time is.
Plunging through trees madly
Like a prey.
Refusing to move, to fork over promises,
I run into it.
So close to being gone,
Suddenly it forms like budwood on the summer.

*

I passed yards and yards for sale,
        house after house
        of cups without lips.
In none was there, for sale,
        dreams unattached to sleep
        or pieces matching what I mean to have.
Only linens much abused;
        dresses old before their fabric;
        shoes, the feet that pushed them
                 out of shape
                 imprisoned in the leather;
        toys, the hands that tugged at them
                 still at the rips.
I have my own of those.

*

No one any longer remembers
When I died.
Or how.
Did I cut my heart,
                 walk to a pondís far end?
                 Is this how I did it?
Not knowing how long I persisted,
         how hard
With what gentleness
I step back.
Trapped in my veins
        I rest in someoneís sleep.

*

When the kingdom comes
        if I am saved in it
        and brought to the tree
                 That first yielded.
I must remember to ask Eve
        if she knew me
        when;
To ask if I will be granted
        A moment to myself;
                 an eternity
                 in a closed garden:
                 my own skin.

*



Copyright © 2007 by Linda Ty-Casper