The Precipice

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Grains of sand

scattered by brooms of wind

into hands

initiating what comes

without a heading,

that which is quick

to the forgetting,

like a vision

the night is wetting

for smooth sailing

through perilous corridors.

There’s a stranger hand than mine

moving this vessel,

now capsized in the Molokai Channel.

The molten sun dripping bright fallout,

illuminating the outrigger,

navigating to land on future islands

in the memory of sea.

Poised there eternally

for dreams to come ashore.

Sunsets awash with blood and sand,

braile to the feet

grail for the hand

to gather what sails in from Tahiti,

on gentle trades of poetry.

The truancy of its passage caught

in coral structures of thought.

Patient for instruction,

the pen poised on the precipice of paper.

A replica voiced again in fluid meaning.

A representation of text,

the quiet in the land,

some kind of darker architecture,

lines of grafite and paper.

What it implies

as the temple dies

in fissures and cracks

that fracture the colonial residue,

seeping salt water into its tissue,

flooding the apparatus through and through.

Soon this motion is channeled

from the tips of the fingers

to the grips of the pen,

whitely collapsing back out

to form another fist that hits

with porous volcanic impact.

It is never static,

all variation voiced in the choir,

like schools of fish it shifts suddenly.

How to seize this color?

This floating feather

is a metaphor,

caught between moments of readiness,

led by whim and chance,

beautiful coincidence.

Feathers like letters competing for words

but on a softer background,

the place of shadow,

the impression of wind in the sand,

convinced it is from within

but not sure of where to stand anymore.

When whole hillsides collapse into the sea,

will it spare me?

The grasping, the attaching of meaning

to that which is no longer concrete

but sealed in obscurity.

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4 thoughts on “The Precipice

  1. This is great poem especially when you mention the disasters as I always say how lucky we are as one never knows what is round the corner with the world weather last few years. I always live each day like it’s my last as far as I can with many disabilities, memory being one but a positive and kind heart sees me through each time. Lovely words. Tweeted this on my Morrison Diaries as I’m sure Jim would love this one.

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