poetry, Uncategorized

The Sisyphus pearl

Sisyphus polished rage pearled purple

with

iridescent layers of loss rough to the

touch. He did not heave

some slipping century smoothed,

huge knuckle crunching boulder,

but bent double around a

pocket-sized

stone of perpetual despair, a

reminder of gone people, gone things.

And poets pocket the same stones,

picked up

after placid crowds or from river beds

and

gardens where they were kissed and

from

gravestones and deconstructed

walls.

Who of us who hold them now have

not

filled our pockets on walks by the

river?

But, we carry them and carry on.

Standard

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s