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
23 Mar 2006
Fingertips – palm.
Pressure for a moment.
Ever so slight, the image remains;
Caught, lightly, in eternity’s web for the quiet to perceive.
Lonely hearts wondering,
Where is my life?
Lonely hearts wandering,
Strife to strife, leaving behind their shadowed image play,
A fading corridor of time’s distant echo for the quiet to perceive.
Day to day – changeless, except to age.
Well worn paths so much the same, unnoticed
In their differings, trod only for their questioning
Presence; the answers unseen for the clatter of the search,
A fading corridor of time’s distant echo for the quiet to perceive.
Fingertips – palm.
Pressure for a moment.
Ever so slight the image remains,
A fading corridor of time’s distant echo for the quiet to perceive.
⇑ by Rick Silletti in Poetry