“ Oft’ Times I “
.
.
Sometimes my poems have to wait their turn, as my heart is already churning
Sometimes they reach out to soothe and requite promises left too
long undone,
Sometimes they demand attention and chop themselves
into chunks of yearning
Sometimes they band together in
mellow interplay, pearls of a truth finely strung.
Sometimes
I fill in as I sit in the grocery store waiting for the Paratransit ride
without needing to name names or identity of the others- does it really matter?
To watch the side of people’s faces, their layers of choice determining their stride,
Once eye contact dissolves, it melts into the ubiquity of seen
but unused expenditure
absorbed by the cosmic Dark Matter
briefly dislodged from the center of our being,
spiraled
up or down or sideways per the dictates of our known and accepted culture.
Sometimes, as a poet, I watch without seeing, lived within and without my own being
I glimpse universes twirling spiral arms, hot gasses forever equidistant, tightly
strung,
the sure and the accepted, the brief periphery of
the promised and unknown, collide
as possibilities swirl,
form, then cease to exist, as real as dirt as illusive as phantoms
where
possibilities exists in moments like quarks, the fade where Reality abides,
yet oft’ times, as a poet, I chose to linger where no man’s mind ever went, but mine.
-
-
A.R. Koheen
