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Nothing More Than Life Itself

Monday, 27. September 2010 22:15

the enso

A white dove egg, hatched, laying on the concrete sidewalk next to a hedge.

"A Dove's First Home" by marlowe

the poem

We earn our first breath by struggle
no pain, no gain, they say —
but what of it, this zero-sum game?
The only evidence is this empty shell, barren,
and the jagged edge where you pecked
your way to freedom from
this womb, like an ancient cave dweller,
its history already forgotten, wanting
nothing more than life itself.
Perhaps there is nothing more powerful
than this urge to breathe in open spaces.

The shell remained untouched for days,
no longer needed since a new struggle was found.
I stepped around this artifact each morning,
honoring its sacredness, noting
the thin membrane, the mortal coil now a shriveled root
no longer required to ground you.
Yes, what of it? I imagine
you have doubled in size,
often obey your parents, and will
someday return to this suburban hedge,
calculating what will be required to continue.

Category:Animal, Divine, Ephemeral | Comments (2) | Author:

Compilation #2

Tuesday, 31. August 2010 20:00

the enso

A crepe myrtle tree with pink blooms

"Pink Polka Dots" by marlowe

the compilation

We watched girls in white linen dresses tango in the twilight
while the ferns stood stiff as sentinels and each rose bud
opened to reveal a labyrinth. When we
constructed our truths as elaborately
as our lies, we found what we had been seeking.
Remember? You wrote: we are one.
The blinking Christmas bulbs teased us like
a lighthouse on the shore. A purring kitten,
a cooing dove. Yes, the white flash
of the mockingbird wings announced the illusion.
And the blinds waved in the wind, plastic tassels tinkling
like door chimes that tease us when we depart.
Counting cans of Campbell’s soup, you think of Warhol.
Boxes of Polaroids contain the overflow, the hallowed halls
of our memory, realities we since discarded.
We had planted yellow tulips at the mouth of the river:
a row of torches welcoming, warning. Their leaves
stretched like webbed fingers, like hydras, like tentacles.
Even the widow tree bent under the burden of our griefs.
No, we find what we are seeking by opening our hearts.
Three doves sit on a telephone wire against the turquoise sky
while a helicopter hovers, focused as a dragonfly.
You see the crepe myrtle with its polka dots of pink blooms
and the golden hues of a peach shine like the sunset
This green glass platter reflects a summer pool:
its ripples barely seen, its calm sheen too perfect.
And the swirling tea leaves in your dainty gold
cup? Caught in the tempest we delivered,
its fortune yet untold.

Category:Animal, Human, Mineral, Plant | Comments Off | Author: