by Ben M Rymer
Tuesday, April 29, 2003
Print Save Become a Fan
An early morning, a poem.
The nights arrive more slowly now-
They struggle over the hills, and loom like spilt ink
Spread too close to a table edge,
Coming at the pace of amber.
I write now in this unregarded hour
With words silent and still
As a chrysalis, silent and still
But aflame with dawns bluish light
An electricity, a far off incident.
No, the words do not stumble
Over one another to arrive, as they have.
They surface, as an otter might,
And are viewed, only to submerge.
This house is dim now, the page in shadow;
Silence like ice rests on every plane.
A bird calls, cars pass.
I reach for the lamp.
I reach out, into the dark.
Want to review or comment on this
Click here to login!
Need a FREE Reader Membership?
Click here for your Membership!
|Reviewed by Elizabeth Taylor (Reader)
|Nice. I like this. Flows beautifully. Bravo.|
|Reviewed by Sandie Angel
|....and your words are like rays of light, gradually surfacing, one after another.....
Sandie Angel :o) a.k.a. May Lu $*_*$