deepundergroundpoetry.com
Mind's Eye Skries
A purifying burst,
Smoke scatters across
Air,
White page
There
Like white space,
Conducting
The
Pace of place,
Expanding vision -
Sphere
Of
Crystal,
Like cloud
Cover,
Converged into sanctification,
Cleansed,
As the mind’s eye
Skries.
Published 21st Jul 2022
Author's Note
Blank page as crystal ball...
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
21st Jul 2022 6:25am
I think of native Americans in those last gasp days of despair traveling all those miles to plunge their faces into Wovoka’s hat where visions of vast herds of buffalo greeted them and the dead arose to life, the white man gone. Don’t ask me why your poetry and especially this poem does that for me. Joseph Smith, as well, in his younger, just beginning to scry days. William Carlos Williams and his red wheelbarrow. Anorexic in a good way. Ty.
21st Jul 2022 8:48am
Aa very interesting comment...
Thank you Mrd...
I really appreciate you sharing your
thought provoking perspective...
You know...
It pleases me greatly to know that
something I wrote has any effect at all...
That's real cool...
Thank you Mrd...
I really appreciate you sharing your
thought provoking perspective...
You know...
It pleases me greatly to know that
something I wrote has any effect at all...
That's real cool...
21st Jul 2022 4:21pm
Yw. I remember the first time I came across William Carlos Williams’ “The Red Wheelbarrow” back in the mid-60s when I was straight off the farm and thought poetry was all about rhyme and rules. Wtf was this garbage. I think I can still quote from memory: “so much depends on the red wheelbarrow/glazed with rain water/beside the white chickens,”
I remember feeling outraged: nothing rhymes, it’s about nothing (thusly predating Seinfeld by decades) and grrrr. But I couldn’t get it out of my head. And then one day, years later, I was doing something completely unrelated to poetry when it suddenly came crashing through everything I thought I knew about poetry and I was gaga.
As I near the end of a long life more Kerouacian than Kerouac, I find myself drawn to the little things, the beauty of insect wings, an old tool covered with rust, something abandoned. I suspect you know the feeling well. Keep looking at the world from the corners of your eyes. “For from the littlest clue/came whatever worth the world ever knew/the next to lighten all men/may be you.”
Rock on, my friend.
I remember feeling outraged: nothing rhymes, it’s about nothing (thusly predating Seinfeld by decades) and grrrr. But I couldn’t get it out of my head. And then one day, years later, I was doing something completely unrelated to poetry when it suddenly came crashing through everything I thought I knew about poetry and I was gaga.
As I near the end of a long life more Kerouacian than Kerouac, I find myself drawn to the little things, the beauty of insect wings, an old tool covered with rust, something abandoned. I suspect you know the feeling well. Keep looking at the world from the corners of your eyes. “For from the littlest clue/came whatever worth the world ever knew/the next to lighten all men/may be you.”
Rock on, my friend.
