Wednesday, May 06, 2009

Small Poem


Sitting in the back yard,
reading about the various untruths––
the lie of extended consciousness,
the lie of interpretation. Knowing
there are others. Down the hill,
the lake greens in the declining light,
and those who have motor boats
move in and out of the launching ramp.
I remember the lines
from another man's poem:
When he touches you,
it will be with my hands.

In summer, the songbirds never know
when to quiet themselves,
singing on into the darkness.

-Greg Rappleye


NOTE: The painting is Melancholy (1896-1898) by Edvard Munch


Blogger Happyflower said...

WOW! I feel guilty just reading this, I don't know why... feeling like I am being the songbird. lol

I like this poem, kinda haunting though to me...but in a good way. :-)

I am just glad I am up early enough to read it before it goes "poof"

7:24 AM  
Blogger Nin Andrews said...


9:30 AM  
Blogger Leslie said...


12:07 PM  
Blogger Brian Campbell said...


12:04 AM  
Blogger Nick said...

Great poem & painting. Thanks for the read.

9:53 PM  
Blogger Collin Kelley said...

Wonderful poem. Love the painting, too.

7:18 PM  

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