memories of the angels' touch

2:48 PM Posted by James Owens







But how could I have
returned to you?
How? When
the memory
of fingertips
still burned my face
like bars of sunlight
falling heavily
through autumn shadows,
and behind ordinary
things the colors
of the world
were memories
of the angels’ touch?

I am trying to speak.
I couldn’t return ---
not with this desire
shivering in me like a drenched
child. This longing
for their breath
to tear me open.
This lust that will
slice me into color.

I didn’t speak. I turned
from you. I drifted
into the trees. I saw
the lovers kiss, and they
fell into each other
and blew away, sand
on the ancient wind,
turning deeper
into the blue wind
and the sky
and the sky
and the sky

8 comments:

r said...

OH


breathtaking

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Crescent said...

i feel like moping just looking at those pictures

D;

Roxana said...

and how much i love this unsure, torn progression from questions to negation and negation of negation - there is indeed no way to escape it, except the final dissolution, becoming one with the wind, the sky... yet not everybody is given this grace...

my passion for colour, born out of a dim intuition of what you express so clearly here, as only a poet can: the colors
of the world
were memories
of the angels’ touch...

and this:
This lust that will
slice me into color.

i am this.

James Owens said...

Crescent: Hello! Thank you for visiting.

James Owens said...

Roxana:

:-)

You are always a better reader of my poems than I am, and I am humbled and made grateful by the attention you bring to them.

"i am this" -- what can I say, what could any poet say, except that I am happy???

Olive Tree Guitar Ensemble said...

Hi, it's a great blog.
I could tell how much efforts you've taken on it.
Keep doing!

James Owens said...

Olive Tree: Welcome! Thank you for reading!