There is a rose inside
our irises which blooms
within these visions,
casting branches
as nerves
stretching their arms,
and clouds
as soft muscle
spreading for fingers
These are not
the false blinders
of old song,
bent illusions,
but time’s recognition
that thorns may scratch,
but skins will heal,
leaving knots so defined
that one can grab
And both might climb
11 comments:
Lovely poem and I LOVE that photograph. :)
I just dropped in from The Razored Zen and wanted to say that's a wonderful poem. I'm looking forward to reading more.
Not false blinders, but real healing that enables the climb.
I've been criticized too often for having rose-colored vision. It makes me sad when others confuse my vision with naivite. You've found the words to explain it better.
You are capable of great heights!
I love the buoyancy of this poem. Creative images abound! Hurray for optimism! Even the photo gives me reason to believe that all is right with the world. ;)
Gorgeous photo and inspiration! Nerves indeed.
Scars as ladders...something very appealing in that. I especially was drawn to the change from one can grab to both might climb. One's scars opened to another. The footholds to a place neither could reach alone.
Paul, I'm glad that photo caught your eye! It's all about the light. :) Thank you.
David, thanks so much for stopping by, and for the kind words. Please do stick around! Any friend of Charles is a friend of mine. :)
Aine, I think there is a difference between naivete and optimism, as seasoned by experience and gained knowledge. Your rose-colored vision is a beautiful thing to me. Because you're always reaching higher, and bringing along others with you. :)
K, I'm glad this poem, and photo, gave you that uplift. I tried to make it a confident piece, and not just a pretty, but flimsy, promise. Thanks for the great comment! :)
Jason, that's what I liked, too.
The idea that by opening those scars to one another, and making them truly felt, we discover a truer connection, and even more to share.
Love not as the healing agent itself, but maybe a warm hand forward. Or upward. :)
I particularly liked the idea of healing after the scratches.
...and every scar a rung on the ladder that allows one to climb a bit more on the mountain called Experience.
What a wonderful poem, although I too go and visit Charles; I popped by here from Vesper's, you know that chick who forgoes keyboards and ink pens in favor of a quill?
Beautiful, Sarah, so beautiful…
I often wish I could look at the world through a rose petal… Somehow I can’t…
Your poem made this possible for me, if only for the short while I could stay with it and the beautiful photo. Thank you. Yet, maybe, something will linger…
but time’s recognition
that thorns may scratch,
but skins will heal,
leaving knots so defined
that one can grab
And both might climb
wow. this is absolutely perfect in every way. not a wasted syllable. perfect fusion of theme and form.
Walking Man, I know her well, thankfully. :) Thanks for coming by! And yes, those scars are less of a burden when viewed in the right light.
Vesper, I wish it came easy to me, too. Sometimes, I try to be in writing what I lack in that other life. ;) But I hope something of this will linger inside both of us. God knows, it's so easy to slide back down...
Billy, thank you! Coming from your gifted hand, that means something extra special to me. :)
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