Maja's Song

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Bit deeper than what has come before but it has been a while

Maja is/was Einstein's sister and has no relevance bar the idea of living so close to genius that you are unheard

Still has bugs.

Years tick by in clicks of a mice,
And the hieroglyphic cliches
Of rampant calendars in stuttered movies
Backlit by streaks of grit and fractured light
That shudders,weave and flickers
In irregular stains

A child bends to pick up sticks
Arises in a gangling tangle of arms
Pubescent breast pounding
To jump at an iridescent sun
In joy and terror at the unknown
And lands to a solid paunch
Thick thighs that plant stolidly
On unsettled ground
To plough and seed and reap
And fondle the new found strength
In a good lie down with nascent memories
That comfort that grow and insulate
Before they chaff and irritate
To cause an awakening with an evening stroll
And the panorama of a twilight sunset sonata
Full of faded colours and remembered breezes
That lead forward to ever increasing stoops
The weight of contentment
The mutterings of old warcries railing wild
Celebrating the latitudes and platitudes of loss
Before finally disappear in silent murmurs
Of creaking joints and crumbled flesh
As another child bends to pick up sticks.

The mandala circles
within mandalas inside circles
Countless spinning wheels poised
On top heroic turtles, Enormous elephants,
Shouldered with a shrug by giants,
With dragons, sprites and dieties for all.
Still others chart destiny
By the magnetic pull
Of rumbustious goats and cloistered virgins
The lunar love and specious hate
Of a newborn child supplicant
To cosmic rays and interstellar days
That tumble to earth
Amid the desert rocks and papered crags,
That line the outrageous fates
That lie in stealthy profusion
Etched and burnt in interminable haste
With ochred icons that promise luck
In sputtered hands slapped hard with hope
To mingle with the ageless stone
And cry for something else,
Something more.
Echoed in that rustic clap
Rises a Parthenon of spirits
The gods made human to rut, to love, to war
Gods hidden in the mechanisms of clocks
Gods born to die and be born again
Gods enough to populate every crevice
Every nook, every breath
In the silent flickers of candles
In the rumbles of a bitter heaven
In the sun that showers life
And in the rains that always pours

Friezes of marbled dreams on mountain sides
Point with outstretched fingers
At the unutterable blackness
At the impossible blueness
Of lights with no meaning
That weave and duck with mathematical precision
In a dance of soulless animation
The automatons of pure physics
The prerogatives of unerring mechanics.
Wrapped in fractions and atoms
They arrive on doorsteps
In packages with no return address

The mice click on
The calendars in heedless velocity
Until the sunrise and sunsets merge
In a kaleidoscope of endless time.


Submitted: July 04, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Paul R. All rights reserved.

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