A poem of listening

Photo by Max Kleinen on Unsplash

I get so tired,
listening to the voices, the words, so many times —
Maybe if you were not quite
so weird,
quite so queer —
and so many times we explain,
and so many times are unheard.

But I hear

I am exhausted,
and my sisters and brothers are so very tired.
Maybe if we went into
hiding,
like we did
when the world was more sensible,
when girls were girls and men were men. . .

gunshots in the dark

But there are concerns,
and good faith questions to be answered in good faith;
and answers that go unheard.
Bad faith;
but I hear
gunshots in the cold night outside:
good faith deeds: killing is honest.

coming closer, closer.

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A study on Abel Carlevaro’s Microestudio 6

Photo by the author

Each of your efforts, each symptom, each
bit of yours written more wittily,
wakes in me yearnings, wakes meaning, makes
every bit richly felt, even when
all I feel, I miss, are feelings of
holding you, scolding you, molding you. . .
Holding me, folding me. . .
What we touch, did touch, what wasted. . .
What
calls, beckons? — quickens? A beacon. What
calls? Humor, hoping, recalling. What
calls? Calming, shaping, distilling. What
hurts?
Losing, giving, releasing. What
hopes? Leaving, giving, receiving your
love.
I am always with you.
Always you are with me.
Enough for today.

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Photo by Bill Nino on Unsplash

I met a cicada the other day.
It was sitting on the wall of my garage.
Cicadas aren’t seen in my neighborhood —
It is not the sort of weather for them here.

I looked in its eyes, and was taken back
To forgotten bits of memory: of heat,
Of the warm evenings of childhood in the east,
Of days in the shade, and the sweat of night,

And cicada skins all clinging to the trees.
But back in myself, in my cold northwest,
Inscrutable eyes looking back at me,
I was glad to be away, to have escaped.

Cicadas of memory live too long.
After casting off a ghost like a bad dream,
To earth, to the soil of the mind they dig,
To emerge, in a few years, in a new skin.

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green can be a shade of blue — a bagatelle

Photo by Omid Armin on Unsplash

The difference of green to green
is like the difference of blue to blue:
unseen, but true.
The greenness of my green is seen
by you as greenness of a different hue.
As blue, to me
Is seen to be a different blue,
like green, by you.
Now green can be a shade of blue,
as some perceptions of the hue
are said to see. And we
may grant in all respects
the candor of a seer’s view
that blue is but a shade of green
that he rejects as blue.
And so that unbemuddled shade
of green or blue that separates our counsels still
evades our view.
For all of that, no argument
can change the greenness of my green,
the blueness of your blue.

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Alyssa Ferguson

Born and raised in a literary household, I write to clarify my own questions.