20140718

Lakey Comess



Cat's cradle of violent deceit

1
Any testimonial to surveillance should include
profile of watcher, amorphous, 'troubled'.

Tell me, were you looking, too, or only
engaging in aroused observation?

2
Seven minutes touched upon remembrance,
bearing witness, armed acts of defiance, martyrdom, resistance.

3
Footprints in snow follow a track to oblivion,
whip's lash diluted by humanism, great universals flattening specifics,
equipment, structured machinery.

Particles of smoke rise over history.
Faces are covered with ash.



Delay reaction

                long enough to conjure slender stalks,
ambiguous shape, neither bird nor butterfly.

Thus, years pass in swaying motion, sweep of form,
darkened space, memory hardening feathers.



Use of a very old photograph

Seventy one years, at the peak of power, articulating
something basic, fundamental to an anxious generation.

Difficulties are harder to transfer in (aging) quest for honesty.

Lines move in wave pattern, like dunes on desert plan.
Is this part of process, becoming history?



Long intervals, separation

That's an iridescent orb, right on the money.

… … …

Moments of departure,
Last time you will have a breath.

There, a flood from the river.

… … …

Darkness captures a voice down the street.

                Nothing will appear in leaving,
back is to the wall, the route you take.

… … …

Memory records moments,
                lights flicker in significance.

Something happened for the last time.
Walk back, around the block, take it easy.

A rabbit strays onto trail, you speak in plurality,
                not unusual in everyday circumstance.

… … …

No time comes again in series of lifetime events.
See, the moon glows red on your path.



Memory regenerates,

                               cell-like, shedding itself like skin.
Changes aren't visible, but are felt all the same.

How can you say we're fine, everything's all right?
Here one is sheltered, two is out on a limb.

Not a single day passes without remembrance;
it's great that you're back, although inaccessible.

Same surface, anguish, fear, mushrooming cloud in front of a pane,
ramming ivy out of the way to a trouble-free corner.

Obviously a whole other realm of interoperable expertise.
Pause, for a moment of silence, twisted and dark.

What would you give to revisit one bygone evening and not run away?
This time, stay for the full course, light candle, fall onto bed.

Half a lifetime expires; other kingdoms absorb troubled dreams.
There's no place for loss. Are you good? What has been permanent?

When did you loosen your grip, let go of life? What else has a price?




Lakey Comess, born U S A in 1948, has lived in Israel, South Africa and the Orkney Islands in Scotland and now lives in Lanarkshire. She has contributed to Versal, Big Bridge, Gulf Stream, Milk, Hutt, Otoliths, Hamilton Stone Review, Mad Hatters' Review blog, On Barcelona blog and other publications, also as Lakey Teasdale.
 
 
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