Good positive poem. I can identify with it. My mind does songs that often crowd out my negative thoughts.
Paraphrase–As a Faulkner character said, “Why call it past when it has never passed?”
Rain on the tin roof sounded
Lullaby. I fell asleep
While the old victrola played
“Pharaoh’s army got drownded;
O Mary, don’t you weep”–
And I was no longer afraid.
Sweet sounds drowned out
My fear and doubt.
I was much older when I questioned why Mary should not weep. Should she not weep for the dead Egyptian soldiers? Or should she not weep because God saves his own? But I was a child when I heard that song. Some sounds just comfort one.
duplicate
At night I find myself railing at the starry skies
Searching for the eyes I’ve never gazed upon
Dreaming of dancing in the bright moonlight
Cheek to cheek with nothing beneath my feet
Heartbeats, discordantly thrumming in harmony
I’ve watched a hundred million twinkling stars
Rise gallantly and fall, grow too bright and burn out
Even streaked the sky myself to end smashed aground
My sadness is covered with dissipated stardust
Of stars caught that ended fragmented meteorites
Hopelessly pulled down by my romantic notions
Each sleep it gets harder to close my eyes
I fear the evenings that the clouds hide the sky
Muffling my dreaming to less than a whisper
Or snuff out the night and my hope all together
And in the morning, the sun appears anew
I lose my lovers, fast asleep with their day
Hungers
Virginia, where are you this morning?
I cannot prevent my own moving.
I dare not stop lonely for looking
In deserts of an old dream.
The sun demands that I blossom,
Fulfilling myself with petals
Until the hunger of meadows
Finds its fulfillment in me,
You say you are empty with loss?
Do you know how it is, Virginia?
You are feeling the urge to be final–
Renewing that empties us all.
The rest is an old lie still screaming
Down from a Western madness–
A lie to stop flowers from blooming
By freezing them in a glass case.
I wither with seasons, Virginia.
Stems have been stunted by drying–
But the sun never ceases demanding–
I bend to his hunger with mine.
My hunger, it sits like a child conceiving
Playing with its toys in chaos and wills
To expose all my weakness for believing
Somehow my plate always will be filled
That romance and beauty can come from within
And all around me are free to partake
Engorging themselves 'til I’m just bones and skin
And nothing is left but my lonely heartbreak
Delighted is he, who lives deep in my gut
He twists and sours, 'til I can no longer bear
Shutter the house, throw all my windows shut
Knowing all of my dreams have become a nightmare
I crawl up inside, pull my bed sheets up tight
Listening for the child who goes bump in the night
Slow Time
I lose awhile the harried world’s hysteria,
Seeing you so winsome in Wisteria.
If I could only mend my mind with mystery,
Could balance on the double edge of history,
I would tell the world how time may linger
Lovely on a petal or a finger.
Aussenseite,
Your poems are brilliant/beautiful. You inspire me to keep on trying. So many contemporary poems don’t do that.
Poetry is deflation of the Ego.
So, the Ego is masculine? And ego freeness, is feminine?
Thank you, Ierrellus. I feel the same of yours. In fact, I would have never joined the forums you pointed out or made it a practice to share my writings again if you hadn’t challenged me to rise to the occasion, so it is I who should thank you.
I don’t think masculine and feminine have anything to do with it. I read that sentence about ego somewhere. It seemed profound, having been written by a poet. It reminds me of Blake’s idea of seeing through the eye, not with the eye.
So does this mean that most Eastern religions are feminine for denouncing Ego?
Im just going by the facts. According to common testimony, the state of ego freeness is associated with tranqulity, clarity, feelings of compassion, and emptiness, and shame. This the same as estrogenic activity. Thus, the mist, is de-mystified.
I really don’t know what that means. It seems like meaning making to me.
Long Black Beetle
Today I am
A long, black beetle
In a supermarket,
Scurrying
To primal mandates,
Obscene
On the shine
Of polished plans,
Not knowing that
The bigger traps
Have room
Like freedom.
Trixie, you are far too analytic and literal to understand the Blake reference. Maybe it’s because of your masculine persona. 
Your facts, not mine.
And you are far too much of a woman, shrouded in vaguity, you won’t explain it to me.
Then tell me the facts, or are you too tired to?