I am glad
I am not dead.
I give thanks and sing.
I am glad my daughter
M is such a whole human being.
Takes care of business.
I thank, give, and sing.
I am happy to be in this maelstrom
when the swell takes me up for a moment,
and blue sky peels open, a crescent smile,
full of invisible milky way. I mean this:
how my daughters R & E roughhouse
and make each other laugh,
even at advanced-age 17
and to-big-to 15.
I sing. I give. I thank.
Poetry sucks. I won't write another line, ever.
You want to just say, but somehow,
SOMEHOW,
it must be understood.
Like this...oops. OK, damnit: give, thanks, sing.
Like this:
Some soar in,
under the dark canopy,
slipshiver a rustling arc
of red or blue,
but always gone,
all gone.
I sing of give. I sing of thanks.
Thank you OS.
Thank you keyboard.
Thank you letters.
Thank you words.
Thank you the whole clean unseen swimming
that is the making of this sentence,
unknown to all and even me and
then first time ever
through tap tap tap.
Who needs
ESP?
I give thanksing.
I give thanksing for the rowdydowdow of family tomorrow
on Thanksgiving, the beat and the heat and the hug and
the turkey oyster, that scoop part in the back with the
pate texture then biteback cranberries, tart, then mashed potato, garlic, ahhhhh
Happy. Givethanksing.
I am both.
And I am not dead.
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Seer
daisyjane
The Good Daughter
Chicken Mãâàn
the traveler
Ashley F. Miller
Salon.com
Comments
:-)
Happy Thanksgiving.
you sing well; your poetry is a choir. Happy Thanksing Day!
What a rollicking line, I love it. And "slipshiver a rustling arc"? Just gorgeous.
I hope you enjoy the day.
R~~
And then there was you and this poetry and this feeling of life
And I realize I was only sleeping.