My Leaning Frame

by | Apr 9, 2007 | Sketches | 0 comments

I have no room on my leaning frame
The seed that’s planted, in the ground
I have no mind for what lays behind
I put no weight on what others find
On the houses filled and so neatly lined
But to reach for the limits
of what I’ve found.

I have no way to explain the times
Or to exchange my lips for your breasts sweet rise
I cannot reason my heart’s own heat
I do not listen to another’s beat
I do not hasten to another’s seat
But kneel to your breath
and my own sweet sighs.

I have no hope to match the range
Of what your unspoken words have told
to repeat the words of the birdsong rhymes
to hang on the mantles or the chimes
to eat the bread and to drink the wines
to rage against the sheet metal crimes
but to hope to have
your heart, to hold.

I cannot seal my tongue of fire
Or the twisted lyrics of greater men
I cannot hope that the cloudless days
Shall come and go
Be fast or slow
Shall fade or glow
But that all the feted lungs so filled
Shall come back to love you again, again.

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Kia Ora. Sorry for the interruption but if you type your name and email address in the fields provided you'll receive my latest brain tumour scribblings as soon as they roll off the press, so to speak. What could be better, other than good coffee in the morning, comfortable non-slip gumboots, peace in the Middle East, having politicians who don't govern out of self-interest and a cure for all types of diseases, including, but by no means limited to, brain cancer.

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