The Ant

I scuttle across the hot sharp sand

up and down the dunes

past rocks the size of Volkswagens

through jungles of dried seaweed

And there before me is the mountain I seek

It is the Pao de Acucar rising out of the sand which I climb

And I become Christ the redeemer

Standing on the top of your big toe

Gazing heavenwards at your copy of the New Yorker

Held by those mysterious hands

you

you, like a firefly now

a miracle of light passing

gone, as if it were

only a moment

you, merely, an image on the retina

leaving an inscrutable darkness

can't you recall the sharing

of the same breath of the dream

you, the warm sand on the skin

you, the tear drops of the hope

the skin of my skin

you, in the morning light

before the days had numbers

you, were my reward,

you, the proof of light

dancing, you

in the ocean salt, laughing

you, a growing vine

alive once again in the spring,

you, the rose and the thorn

Van Gogh

He sits on a stool in the grassy meadow

Alone, the hot sun of anger

Burning the edges of his palette

Propped up against the bitterness

Of his calloused unknowing hands

Fumbling through sheafs of fibrous memory

Of things unsaid, hardly noticing

The violent colors of the mean and faithless swirls

Dabbed errantly on the canvas

Of histories re-written

By a brush with a mind of its own.

Ravaged by the ugliness of his own misbegotten soul

Ignored by salvation

The light shifts casting a moment's ray

As if merely a cloud passing by

On a nearby milestone of wildflowers

Which he paints and calls, “Irises.”

1000 Days And Nights Underground

This one spoke to me on Christmas, the third after Bailey's passing....

Lightning, and you were gone, alone

The sound of night wings flying, bumping

In dark hospital caves, moonless, starless, light less

Wandering, trying to retrace so many steps

Trying to find the way back

To something familiar

To a world with light

From where even the shadows have failed

I can hear your voice sobbing, echoing

In the distance of cold depth and stone

Impervious, bleeding upon her rock

The sacred ways of the earth interrupted,

Forever

I too am bleeding,

But for you, your soul, your essence

And I will wait

To be the grasses in the Spring

To be the bud,

The clearing in the midst

The distant indistinguishable light

I am at the entrance calling your name

I can see the light of the sun

And feel the heat of the moon

But I do not know your way

I call your name again and again

The Spirit mother of the great earth leans upon my shoulders

Whispering, to lean deeply into the darkness,

To look for you where sight is lost

To stumble and fall with you, again and again

Until, your hand is in my hand

Until dreams of molten silver return

And we can retrace your steps

Eyes adjusting

To the magnificent and infinite light

Writers Wanted!

We're on a mission: to promote writers and their work. To do this, we need the submission of your poetry, prose, short stories, articles, ideas, opinions...and...uh hmm...I suppose your complaints too, provided they are not directed at me. Once received, there are several of us who make up the editorial board and who will choose those for publication. At the same time, we are trying to attract as many readers as we can which will provide an audience and hopefully one that grows exponentially. Eventually, we hope to attract publishers who, to that end, will assist the writers in paid publication. And, as our readership builds, we hope to attract advertsiers. Are you interested? Have something to say? Send it to us. For the time being, send your submissions directly to my email box at jasatlaw@hotmail.com - put "Talkingbear Speaks" in the subject line. If you would like to have your name and bio published along with your work, and I think that it's a good idea, send that along as well. And lastly, tell your friends and contacts about the site - tell them to visit us. Every journey begins with a first step and this is ours and can be yours as well.
Thanks,
Jamie

Poem For This Week

If I Could Be

If I could be your foot
what distant sands I might have traveled
what floors I would have walked
cradling babies in the moonlight
free and shoeless
 
If I could be your hand
would I be able to trace
the outline of the stars
or reach out to touch the pain
 
If I could be your breast
could I know the giving of life
would I become the center
 
If I could be your lips
would I come to speak your truth
would I feel your breath passing
would I lose your softness
 
If I could be your heart
could I make the leap
across the relentless canyon