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The Poetry of Harry
Furness
What Road
OK
I think that I'm finally catching on
"A journey of a thousand miles, starts with a single step"
Travelling down an old highway at the start of winter
The trees are all bare and their branches have seen this before
They are knarled and twisted
Tree grown into tree creating a thicket
What grass there is, is dead and brown
Their heavy bearded heads bowed over waiting for the next
Cold wind
This is no Currier and Ives postcard
There is no virgin white gleaming winter snow on the ground
Covering all of the blemishes and hiding the true nature of the
road
The road is potholed and faded gray with wheel ruts
Forming and ridged in the middle of the lane
I know this road and seldom pay attention to it
The concrete on the side that holds back nature is crumbling,
Pieces of the top are exposed stones
There are dents in the rusted guard rails from slamming vehicles
I turn onto the new road
No, it is not spring and the sun doesn't burst through the clouds
The road is black and shiny-smooth and new
Still oily in parts
The concrete on the sides is white and yet unscathed
The guard rails have a dull sheen and are also unmarked
The few pines planted on the embankments are small and
Are wired to stakes holding them upright
I don't know this road
I've looked on the map to see where it will lead
I know the compass direction, but not the outcome
I don't know the curves and as yet can't see the bumps
I'll not have time to get use to it
Because I'm only taking this road to get to another
I look up and see birds sitting on the overhead telephone wires
There are four wires with birds sitting on each,
The birds are grouped, some vertical and some horizontal
The birds with their tails hanging down look like musical notes
I wonder what tune they would play out
As I drive, they seem to shift, as would the song
Maybe it's just a variation on some cosmic travelling theme
But I seem to hear the melody,
Yet
Another Reminder
I see your eyes reflected in the morning
sky
As I sit on the porch
I see the golden glint of your hair reflected in the tanned grasses
Of coming fall
I hear your voice whispered in the breeze
And feel your soft touch in anxious winds
I look for you on the streets that are crowded with noise
You've disappeared into the shadows
That dance in my daydreams
I'm sorry that I can not longer hold you
I gave that right up
I sit and send wishes out through the open wound in the sky
Maybe one day I'll heal
Maybe one day I'll move along because there's nothing here
To see
Today's not that day
"Better to have loved and lost than ... "
There's another sunrise tomorrow
And maybe the sky will be overcast
To hide these colors striking my eyes
Like knives
Beauty and the morning
I awake slowly and open my eyelids and
can't believe that you are
Sleeping there beside me
Hair damp from the summer heat
Surrounds your face like petals of an exotic flower
Hiding the mystery of scent from a bee searching for pollen
Last night you took me to places that I had only
Dreamed existed
Our cells connecting passing love through osmosis
Into the realm of deep knowing
Past intelligence
Past the third star on the left
You opened a world of kindness and acceptance
I tasted your salts and felt your smooth skin
Feeling its glow on my fingertips
As we lay together our eyes had focused on depths
Within and on worlds of atoms without
The facets of your gem shone in colors beyond my silly little
Comprehension
This morning's sweet memories of time
Call for more than coffee
When is dinner?
The stop light turned red
And on one of the corners was the cemetary
He looked over and saw the people
Gathered underneath the canopy
Everyone dressed in black, with some leaning on others
The coffin hovering over the hole
Suspended, as tho there were opposing magnets holding
Each other at bay, for just a while longer
He remembered the lines from "Hamlet"
"Where's Polonius?"
"At dinner, sir"
"And what is it he eats?"
"It is not what he eats, sir, but rather what eats him"
Does lowering the box, somehow complete the food cycle?
When we are born, is there also a death day?
Like Shakespear, do some of us complete the cycle on the same
day?
Or is it all chance?
The hole in the ground looked like a verticle door
Was this the last door any of us opened or closed?
This gateway led to as many mysteries as the doors that have
Closed behind us
The light changed and he drove on
He didn't think about this anymore
Now where was the street that his little girl's friend lived
on
Anyway
copyright Harry Furness
For more from Harry visit his
columns: now, then,
before; and his poetry:
then and before.
Or his online home.
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