Thursday, October 06, 2005

Of Things Unspoken

Silence. Like the sound of a whale asleep
in a gray slant-lit cove. Or the soft inhale
of the north wind after a storm has passed.

      my prison
            my cave
                  my haven
my coffin.

A neighbor bikes past my house.
Longings for my own cobwebbed bike
surge deep inside of me.

I imagine old lovers returning
to resurrect limp limbs with a whisper.
I dream of dead friends and relatives
gathering to sing hymns to the gods
of late awakenings.

At night I fly high over rows of rooftops
bent like a sea of tents.
My cobbled body stares back at me.

Eyes closed, my arms web into wings.
The wind rises.

Pris Campbell


Coloratura said...

This is lovely - such beautiful imagery!

Pris said...


Michael Parker said...

This is beautiful. Sad. Wonderfully visual. A great write, Pris!

Pris said...

Thanks, Michael
I rarely write semi-directly about the illness I deal with, but a comment from Rae Pater encouraged me to go for one. Mostly I'd rather forget about it and write about other things.

Rae Pater said...

awesome Pris! Wow!!!

That ending is just perfect!

Pris said...

Thanks, Rae
As you can see, you inspired me!

Lyle Daggett said...

Beautiful poem, Pris.

Pris said...

Thank you. I'm always glad to see you visit my blog.