Love, Imagination - In The Feet

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Keeping a record

 

Love, Imagination - In The Feet

*** Our Souls call Our Incarnation “In The Feet.”

By A. Guinevere Kern

c - 1- 2021

 

I dunno how it feels

Love.

Everyone seems to have possession of

Love.

Or pursuing it, or lamenting
 
Its loss or intensity,

Or it’s quickened disappearance.

Some weep when they speak

Of Love.

I have green eyes and climbing feet.

Breath of mountains, dark body -
Sharp, steep and imperious greetings,
Forest swells, deep wells, leaning leaves
Call to my soles - walk amongst us.

The stammer of green iridescent wings
When hummingbirds churn by
The fallen threads of hair
That fret my face, slapping my cheeks
As they swirl past.

As I lean into my tulip vase
Admiring their red and veiny folds.

I feel something important -
Swirling, pouring, living Light.
When reading or observing
The Rubric of Nature’s Helix and
Slender connecting threads.

In me, something winces and groans
Over the starving and the dead.
Something in me bows
When I behold the pregnant.

And when I speak a lie
For good or malignant measure
I feel Nature
Turn on her heel
And walk away.

But of love
I stand bereft
We have never met -

Not yet.

In or out of the Feet.

Or have we?

Green-eyed, evasive-eyed -
Walking away
My Feet.

All I observe of Nature’s orders
God Relegates to Divine Imagination,
Originating not in Mankind’s mind.
Whatlovelossdisquiet, then,
Trembles in my Spiral Mind?

Is it neuro-chemicals a bubbling?
What is the squeeze that’s troubling me?
This old, congested heart of mine,

Memories of your painfully perfect
Face.

I got Possessed. Yes?

Dude - how could any man
Be so Angelic barefoot beautiful?

Your demon feet got twitchy.

I should have written
Where my feet have been -

Stories about mountains, ridged,
Sink hole hollaws in Hunt Mississippi,
Peaks not seen nor scaled. Wind songs not
Found in solid pages, nor tender grasses
Slender, cool between my toes.

Stories about monsters
In Underground caverns,
Wraiths, Haunts and Footloose
Spirits. The Spirit of Woodsmoke
Whiskey tells better tales.

Ballet slippered, I stepped on a Nail
Straight through my own Big Toe -
From Day Care to old car, blood in my shoe,
I yanked it free, drove Straight to the ER
Nurse gave me a tetanus; “You’re brave.”
She said - I needed new shoes.

Poems about concrete, summer steam rising
Concrete people, burned minds dying
Dry or wet sand squish, sea greeny chill,
Tides tickle in and out. Shell smells.

I’ve walked on Travertine and Marble
Wood planks wet with moldy slime,
Dirt in the sand box, Tender Nursing
Trees in the Rain forest. Bark bites.

I’ve stood in Towers, in Churches
In Bleachers, in pitching boats, In line
Out of place, Too long, in the Dojang
Dirty sweaty mat. Sole tearing thorns
Caught in the bright vines.

Rubber sneakers squeak
On the gym floor
Tiny white beaded pearl flats
At my weddings, dancing.

Toe First into the Deep End -
And cold, Lily pad water in Maine.
Oceans, rivers, streams, ponds
In and out with my Dockers on,
Climbing cable tray in Port Gibson,
Got stuck in Yazoo Clay.

My Feet have been everywhere
And no where . . . Worth staying long . . .

 . . . .tapping, tripping, skidding, sliding, swirling, stumbling now . . .

Ever battling with Candida, my Daddy
Even put Desitin in his slippers!
My crazy Momma even ate it!
Her feet went loopy places
I did not care to follow.

Now I lean on my wood cane
Brass ball on the end.
No where to safe wander.
Feet swollen in my shoes.

Homeless man even robbed me.
I couldn’t side-walk fast enough
To escape his grabbing hand
Under the canopy of a tall Palm.
He snatched my bag and kissed me.

I hold onto three objects
Just to stand up. Every worn part
Aches. Soul to soles. Moored in
Remembrances of Feet Explorations
And a few old poems with ten toes.


Several paintings, drawings, sketches
I thought were so great. But not.
The Soul sheds Shoes Into
A lit Cloud, they said. Surfing on air.


Behind me the whisper
Of a quiet tracing, never erasing
Nor running or racing
The Death Angel following -

Picking up speed, the white wing beat
Airy paths where I never set my feet
And will never again on Earth.

Why after Dying is there only flying?

’Twas not a Lover I found on this ground.

Or did?

 

 

 

 

 

**********  For V - you know you are the most gorgeous of men.

 

 

 


Submitted: February 06, 2021

© Copyright 2021 RexMundi555'.-. All rights reserved.

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