Confidence is a very strange thing. I just don't know how to put my finger on it. It dissolves so easily, is destroyed by sensitivity. Yet sensitivity is almost the prerequisite of the writer.


BEING ME (CORRECTED)

My apology  for the error of 'cut and paste' which occurred when this was initially posted earlier today. All corrected now I think.

 

 

 

The wind of change blows,

through the unfurling leaves.

Raising, silently,

steam – from moist sunlit soil

that only feels this heat once each year.

A light mist fogs the slanting columns

of Spring sunlight, and all could

be well with the world ~

only,

of course,

the world is far from well.

 

It is an illusion then … like all things …

something and nothing … there and not there …

 

Warm balmy air to sweeten your breath

fills this tunnel through the trees,

and soon it will become a refuge from

the relentless Summer heat….

I feel your breath tickle my cheek,

your fingers tingling my neck,

trailing through my hair ~

only,

of course,

you are nowhere near me.

 

It is an illusion then … like all things …

something and nothing … there and not there …

 

Clean fresh air fills my lungs as I pace,

panting my way up this hill …

it’s just the same gas that we breath daily -

the spoken air: that once fueled

the lungs of the proud Robin …

that mixed inside the frog’s croak …

that bore your sweet kiss ~

only,

of course,

it is far from being fresh.

 

It is an illusion then … like all things …

something and nothing … there and not there …

 

 

My virile mind maintains it’s old lie,

my heart boom-booms to my step …

for I am young, and fit, and full of vim …

Legs of iron, lungs like silk,

going on for ever – like the sun -

doing exercise ~

only,

of course,

I am far from being young.

 

It is an illusion then … like all things …

something and nothing … there and not there …

 

So I stop and turn back, without you

I fear my mortality …

an old, tired man, who power walks each day,

but is fearful without

a plastic identity card,

to tie on my toe ~

so that ...

someone ...

could tell you that I am ... 'me'.

 

It's no illusion then ... the cold hand of reality …

something and nothing ... there but not there.

 

 

 

© Allen Ansell 2022





Poetry by Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 76 times
Written on 2022-06-12 at 12:49

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Sensitivity seems to have triumphed this round, Allen, and we all benefit. There are fine imagery and thoughtfulness here.
2022-06-12


jim The PoetBay support member heart!
This engaging, almost hypnotic, and relatable. Well done.
2022-06-12