poetryrepairs 15,05:052

PAUL R. DAVIS : Days of Solitude

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Days of Solitude  

There are days when solitude is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonicÖ. -- Colette
When Admiral Byrd stayed behind in Antarctica, did he know how alone loneliness itself is, a hand that floats above the earth? I have known, seen, that hand white with sorrow wave at me through the window tightly shut. But how we wrestle with our shadows as Admiral Byrd did, intoxicated by the silent fumes, maddened inexorably, as we are by solitude and its stalemate. We talk, write, walk down streets where ghosts gather into form, where Antarctic snow becomes the foundation of rescue, where our snow restores our sanity and the seeing between us all.

poetryrepairs #211 15,05:052

Like a Fish

Uncle Jack got caught driving while intoxicated, even though my Aunt had bought him a bar to manage across the street so he could walk home. But instead of walking he drove and got into this mess with the law. Plus, they couldnít visit our house since it was not near public transportation. The only solution was for us to visit them more. Uncle Jack was only social when he had a few beers in him. Otherwise, heíd give commands, like tell my father to drive the car around the block to keep the engine in good shape. Father didnít like traveling in circles. But Jack would have him test the horn until they became the center of attention. Father would tell us privately during the ride home that if you drink like a fish you have to endure the consequences of being one out of water Ė thrashing about, not getting anywhere.

poetryrepairs #211 15,05:052

Slow Mercy

When I beg for mercy I always mean right now but the universe moves in her own blue rhythm and does not care about my urgency She understands better what my damp soul yearns for, when Iím primed to welcome shifting light in sky, when I need to spin in my own weather I call a halt too soon, before Iíve broken through. She keeps the pressure on, her hand insistent ítil walls explode and alchemy has bloomed Mercy always comes. Late, just when I've given up, convinced there's no solace for the likes of me, she arrives just then to dazzle my lapsed faith

poetryrepairs #211 15,05:052

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