Spawned off of Dana’s wonderful, fantastic American sentence:
Everything else can be new while the self spins in still epicycles.
Epicycles: illusory motions keep ideas fixed in their spheres.
Spheres are the dreams of circles, circles of lines, lines of mere points like eyes.
Two points define a line, horizontal, a horizon of yearning.
Horizons tease but never come, keeping ahead like a true idea.
Kinda feel like these want more form to connect them and lead them forward.
Often posted to the 17 or haiku groups on identi.ca:
Standing by the track, hoping to catch the earliest passing cool breeze.
And there it goes away on the breeze, my fried brain.
often bring out those feelings
undeserved but true.
Where some see lines, others feel sight pulled taught across imagination.
get out of the way
let words sing and shine.
I want naught but love
though less physical than that
A nearly full moon
wearing a fast cloak of cloud
calls forth a fresh Spring.
And yes, I know some people roll their eyes at short forms. “The short forms aren’t enough work to be poetry.” The other side is that they’re accessible to all. Anyone can add a little form to an observation. That renders it special simply by intent. And poetic, by intent to be formed and special. I have no illusions about speaking deep truths or grand images. I just speak. That’s all I can do.