Views from a frantic angle.
14 Nov 2009
I have a wand now;
I have it for my service,
For my silence,
For my skill at emptiness.
I wave my wand as he did, and I await!
I wave my wand as he did,
And yet the magic doesn’t come
As I was told it would.
My wand was his once,
His that he made magic with.
The magic that he made before he passed that is,
The magic that I should have now for my service.
Oh how I wished that magic were mine;
So much that I served to get it when he passed.
And though I wave it as he did, the magic doesn’t come,
Forever and a day the magic doesn’t come.
And so I sit, or stand, or stray a little here and there;
But never to leave, or go to my peace – and wave my wand
That I so dearly craved though the magic never comes
As I was told it would, and dwell forever upon my deed.
⇑ by Rick Silletti in Poetry and Hell's Hearth
14 Nov 2008
low – wide,
like distant drums in the night,
so quietly the thunder rolls!
⇑ by Rick Silletti in Poetry and Haiku
23 Jan 2008
Never clean up a calliope`s voice,
Its clash is its life – its difference.
A tired Pianola`s shredded character
Born of so many bright and cheerful turns
Should never be fixed new!
Dissonance so unique so often hides
A source that simply returns along its
Old accustomed ways.
Leave its character to grow like a
Tangled tired root bearing, crudgingly,
The many gifts of time.
A thing cast about it like a shadow, a bit
Out of tune to hide the lack.
There is newness even there that can’t
Be found along the well trodden way,
If you really care to look.
⇑ by Rick Silletti in Poetry
7 May 2007
All things it seems end with a sigh, or begin to end.
Whether it be tragedy or ecstasy or just a final end to tedium.
Decisions that make themselves, then let you know, use them;
as do children when they despair that you will ever understand.
A field of them is a hard thing see with the minds eye
until you sigh in giving up the quest and find it there at your minds edge like something waiting patiently to be allowed in.
Like with Love, like with Devotion, like with Surrender; each arrives
in it’s own time with a sigh and leaves you wondering what has ended
for good or ill, really, and left only open doors before you.
⇑ by Rick Silletti in Poetry