I’d aimed to be
a ME-ist
when He
called me high
beneath a rise
where strength grows on peony petals
breaking through
The rock
radical love
a shock;
stock ME-istism
rocked —
chinked by pink
and powder
what will
make the sage
stand still —
I know that’s
when He speaks;
toppling olympus
wresting Me from isms
bare; I saw Me in His basket
patently
picked on
purpose
I’d aimed to be
a ME-ist
when He
called me high
beneath a rise
where strength grows on peony petals
breaking through
The rock
radical love
a shock;
stock ME-istism
rocked —
chinked by pink
and powder
what will
make the sage
stand still —
I know that’s
when He speaks;
toppling olympus
wresting Me from isms
bare; I saw Me in His basket
patently
picked on
purpose
t’was me who posed
the question
with no capacity
for
the answer
that came on unshod feet
miracle unaquired; the gates
were sturdy
t’was my idea
the hand of power
crushed not this trembling
frailty
known intimately from the
position of low
HELD
not crushed
covered
not choking
on reckless words of refusal
to bow
not to bow from
low
Dignity’s
indignity
confused
Major
Minor
the not to bow from low canon
implodes
Hand-harbored
Touch; the
Crush
on
clemency
Power
in vulnerability casts
suspicion whereby
defective impressions
progress:::pretention propagates low
persistently
HELD
held off held on held out in
hope of love logic
illogical; maneuver
on ever nerve-centered
tender drenched potence
sense
infinite requirements:
this know
foreclose
the
touch, the
bow; the
clasp; the
hand of power
finally
grasped
Brown, brown, brown, brown – all the colors of the universe engendered at the dare of dawn. In hand, a spectral palette on which the love of many shall wax cold oblivious to green futility. Seizer of green – no sense of synch, a wonderment cresting flat. Synchronize and see it is of no small task to stay in rhythm …cresting flat? The ordinary has a wonder. Master that green ought come soft and easy. The synch is out of order. A muddled meter reigns informing musing mayhem that enchants.
I’ll dance.
For a spell. Always for a spell.
The ordinary has a wonder. I am god presumably unacquainted with the insignificant. Only me.
Omniscient me, ruling out of rhythm.
Bloated brilliance devoid of luster hypes a minus-book pinched from the annals of essence.
Author not known
fully.
Monochromatic proficiency feigned, I prance to brown and die.
Author not know
fully.
ThoughtSong Intersections 