Blind Retreat
October 12, 2011
Wilting prose
Graced the facade
of fading grey headstones,
Marking rows of memory
And a little misery.
—
I make my way
down neural pathways,
But the cane is just a prop, a sturdy assist.
The tapping sound reminds me
of what I can not see.
—
Whispers of
grandeur echo loudly,
without a sound – only slightly better
than what we had
supposed.
—-
The Night
shakes its head
And goes
back to
sleep.
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the night shakes its head… i love
“The tapping sound reminds me
of what I cannot see.”
I really like that. I was wondering today if you’re still writing poetry. So glad to see that you are
Mmm. Fear not the tapping of the cane.
All my most rewarding retreats have been gone into blindly, hands empty.
Thanks for the comments! This one felt a little more disconnected to me, but what the hay. I posted it anyways. There were little lines in this I really liked too, the ones you each have picked up on. But didn’t feel this all coming together in a way.
So, LL, yes, I am still writing (or trying) poetry. Mostly because you guys are willing to read it!
I hear the presence of footsteps. They echo over those of the past. I hear them stop, too, knowing there is deep presence, even if new presence, buried in the dark stillness.
Discovered your blog here today, and I’m eager to do more walking here. Your voice has a tapping.