[lit-ideas] SUNDAY POEM

  • From: "Mike Geary" <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • Date: Sun, 25 May 2008 18:28:06 -0500



Finally it was spoken,
said aloud
what, I suppose, 
must have been in the back of all our minds,
and then, inevitably, that uncomfortable silence
and the long trek home.

Why did he have to go and say it?
Many were angry.
Some things are just best left unsaid.
It could have been dealt with.
In other ways.
Some other venue.
There was no need for that.


Camping out on the sea shore
just south of Paestum
the hills and the buildings of Agropoli
all lit up golden-like in the sunset 
and the Mediterranean deepening
sapphire into indigo,
Oh, man, wow, didn't I wish I had brought my camera!
Joanna was crying.
I asked her what was the matter.
"Nothing," she said, "nothing."
And she the poet!


Where do words reside?
Most think in the brain.  Not me.
I think it more likely
that words live in our fingers
and our tongues and our nose.
I think our skin sparkles with words
and our genitals shout them --
words that our brains think obscene,
having no idea
what words are
all about.


Mike Geary

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