“The poem I want to write is impossible. A stone that floats.”             ~ Charles Simic
To wrap a touch of thought in gauze and carry it carefully to a warm place where it can rest
and rise 
there is no word to describe the wave that fills your pores and a scent you have never found but remember so well
it takes you by the hand 
by the throat sometimes
and though you try to hold the imprint on your eyes 
 you forget so easily
and it falls away into the dusty corners
until swept out and a tingle on the back of your neck makes you turn
to pick the shining bit up and put it with the others you have collected and nurtured
to thread onto the poets crown
and watch it burn with words on fire
until dropped sizzling into the well of souls and cooled with fresher waters 
this is your honor and your curse 
to glance against but never catch
a thornsharp thirst no wine
 no running stream can alleviate
to never gaze your fill
and never
reach the end

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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