Under Riverside Park
To: a place to disappear or perhaps brood when it is the Brooding Season
Glittering bespeckled stones
seem hidden by fog,
and a reflecting promenade
genuflects a colorless kaleidoscope
behind benign hues of ashen-black.
Strong forces gathering
hope, faith, and gravity.
Spring to the work anew.
With your regretful steps
I must climb to the truth.
Bring forth!
the new
hope, faith, and gravity,
no more pick-pocketing vanity
hijacking sanity.
Qualifying chaotic patterns between
quantifying prodigious matters with
gathering elbows bent as
biasing soulless forms relent,
and wandering nomadic worms
dissatisfy the egregious night and
fraternize to the heart’s delight.
There’s a corner on the precipice
over the park by the river
where Riverside rolls for
the runners, bikers, dreamers,
and the earth drops to a path,
a place to hide or forget the past.
And there’s a point jutting into the dark
near an iron rod fence,
painted black and aligns
curious dimensions that
hug unrecognizable
and undeniable suggestions.
In this dissonant world,
Our Hovel of Repine,
reliving your words divine,
handwritten in your cell,
all alone in your hell,
where hallow-words that once sparked
are now lost in the hollow-dark.
Were we lax in our dreams
and our savvy sublime?
Throw away what is yours;
forget what is mine?
So some nights the air
smells of your pensive
perfumes that loom
while I saunter the stairs
recreating our cares
where flowers fear to bloom.
… for there’s nothing of you
that I’d gladly take back,
… or am I lying to myself?
Hurdle back to the track?
Would I step to your attention?
Would I jump at your “Mark,”
with no curious dissension,
no truth left to mention?
Let the minor requiem mark
upon the guise of Riverside Park,
recumbent tree trunk missing bark,
where your name soils the dark,
giving way to the mallow spark
that splits the seed on which we feed
as the stem embarks to intercede.
We are more than what we bleed.
Thank you so much for reading my poetry. It means the world to me.
