As I reach inward for the throttle of the poet
A boy of many ages
Stands at the foot of well-tred stairs to
An attic suite of rooms
Split into one
On this side of the veil of imagination,
A bedroom his father
Shot up from curious 8-year-old
Into decades marked by
Their vast difference;
From Vietnam War era Atheist Airforceman
In all that Thailand could offer a young man,
Life raging through his veins
To the Baptist would-be minister
If not for the mark of one divorce.
Standing even taller at this golden staircase
Facing the son of complexity,
A grandfather clock
Whose pendulum found
The middle-path of no further movement
Right or Left
In a time remembered only by
Black and white photos
Barely sealed in a curious chest
In the other more magical of the attic rooms.
Always reaching for the attic
Mostly restless in the lower floors
Sensing there must be more secrets
Whose mystery could feed the longing,
The longing that sits in my gut ,
The knowing and
Conversational whispering among my viscera,
The yes, indeed,
There is something more…
At times helium for the balloons of my imagination
And around certain bends,
The rusting anchors, no longer moorings for
Anything but the reminder
Of all the oxidation of impermanence.
It’s time to rise,
The wind at my back,
Seed stirring in my loins, heating, readying.
Each time Spring invests her renewal
I must hone my senses to give these seeds of power,
These seeds of Grace some fertile fruitful pathways.
They do
Like me
Reach for attic rooms.
They do
Like me
Hope for some uncomplicated
Distractions in the lower rooms.
You see, I must realize at some
Point
That I have been walking
In circles
Around the same block for centuries
Looking for entertainment in
A house with no lights
Condemned to pass
Into dust.
I finally willingly concede
In this Spring cleaning,
Letting the final vestiges
Exit the final stages of
My digestion.
All Rights Reserved 2011 - Scott Patrick Schwenk 3/6/11
