The Low Road

THE CRUSH:

Without the dark,

All-encompassing, comforting,

How would we know light?

If I could not see your face as I rise in the morning, I doubt

whether I would get up at all.

Such a rose.

HOPE:

Now endure this ray of sunshine,

get up, get up,

a new light is taking flight.

To mope/to wallow, perhaps just fallow,

there is more to life than this.

THE REGRESSIONAL SLIP:

Follow perpetually (there is no such thing),

This contemptible affliction.

The crush will. Become a dramaturgical fixation,

despair and inability to go forth –

even from bed.

Every day.

PO

Cataplexy

It has been too long - still, sometimes the creative river suffers drought too (how pretentious is that!) - if writing is a habit, a routine, a drive, then perhaps I am truly paralysed in plundering forth... Still, occasionally, an inkling takes hold. An idea formulates. The pen touches paper... and I remind myself that I am capable. If nothing else.

Drop me a comment on this new poem below (and/or the new one above).

CATAPLEXY

All soles, mighty, stock-still

sufferingly glued to the ground.

A sudden sense of the metaphysical,

acknowledged; unwillingly quizzical,

rigid, fearful. Muted sound.

Cataplexy.

Such a wonderful word!

Inspiring dexterity of the tongue,

demanding understanding – immobility of nightmares.

Whereupon awake, drookit with sweat, into it stares.

Embrace physical disability, no longer young.

Cataplexy.

Fear of fear itself,

a reason by which not to move at all?

Rooted inactivity, unintentionally profound,

this voyage of privilege has run aground.

Eternal stasis, preparing to fall.

Cataplexy.

PO