Monday 26 March 2018

my room


I like to be in a place
Where evidence of me remains—
White walls covered with scribbled sketches,
Memories of summer evenings in the birch forest or clumsily 
beneath the oak table lying on the floor with my brothers—
My scratched watchface ticking quietly on the bed
beside me as I tuck my face into the pillow at night—
Books stacked in isolated piles randomly
like monuments to the wind in bryce canyon
Each one a series of sleepless nights and feelings of precipice
That then ended. Here where spring stubbornly
Refuses to open her sleepy petals,
I am dreaming of the moon in a sandy night sky,
I am wondering where I will be next season,
what evidence will remain behind.
I am breathing cold night air
amidst the sound of sirens.
I am pouring a dram of scotch
and wandering into the desert.
I am closing my eyes and seeing the maples davening
As the storm begins high in the mountains.

1 comment:

  1. I enjoyed this beautiful poem. I also have been enjoying your podcast on Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse. I firstly found your blog in the podcast. Your podcast helped me understand Steppenwolf and Herman Hessee. Thanks for your commitment and sharing it. while hearing it, there are some parts I couldn't catch. Could you let me know your email address? My address is a naegunp@gmail.com

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