Here is the zing
chiseled words make
when I refuse silence —
listen to me —
what I must say
could overspill a poet’s dozen notebooks,
or maybe just this twenty-one line poem
wrenching its hiss and crackle
into the space your pressed patience allows —
listen — I will hold forth
in all my flame and fury —
these desires, these button-bare
needs — everything
I covet and must place
my hands upon — you
shall listen to me
and from these lips will steam
ninety-nine words of love,
or hate, or something ultimately,
irrevocably wedged somewhere
between us —
© T. Clear
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10 comments:
Fantastic. This is rage controlled, pinned back, made into something shiningly clear: we need to talk. The wonderful movement of this via the dashes (like punches in the air) is stunning ...
Puts Shakespeare to shame.
so strong, T.
How can one resist reading on after those three opening lines? No matter how pressed my patience!
So much passion, such tight, tight reins--and how clearly anger speaks when it is allowed its voice. This is wonderful, T. My muscles hurt in my jaw from your clenching. xo
Dear T., I hope you can get past these painful emotions and strange migraines soon. You will feel better in the future. Take whatever medication they prescribe, relax, and imagine the future. best to you, sp
every word, just right and packing such power. this is a hard space to be in, but these ninety-nine words must help.
Keep writing.
Mary, thank you, as always, for taking the time to read and comment! xo
Delores, I've not ever been compared to The Bard. (I remain humbled and modest in my word-smithing.)
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