easter

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sunlight made him a legend:
photo flash upon his halo,
overexposed,
color faded by the glare,
face obscured—
one eye,
half a smile—
what’s left
is misted over
with radiance.
in awe,
we pour illusion like water
over his tired feet,
though to think,
only yesterday,
this same man
was a solid figure
in the darkness.
we could not see
but knew him then
by virtue of touching
with our hands.

©A. D. Joyce, 2018

Waters of March

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rain today, made me think of this song, beautiful lyrics

the waters of march (águas de março; excerpt)

a stick, a stone, it’s the end of the road
it’s the rest of a stump, it’s a little alone
it’s a sliver of glass, it is life, it’s the sun
it is night, it is death, it’s a trap, it’s a gun

the oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush
the knot in the wood, the song of a thrush
the will of the wind, a cliff, a fall
a scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all

it’s the wind blowing free, it’s the end of the slope
it’s a beam, it’s a void, it’s a hunch, it’s a hope
and the river bank talks of the waters of march
it’s the end of the strain, it’s the joy in your heart ….

©A. D. Joyce, 2016

counterclockwise

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it’s a dirt road, see,
i’m standing in the middle of,
and if the dirt were water,
it would boil down to this:

i have 11 in one hand, I say,
and only one in the other,
so either i can keep 11
and get rid of one,
or else keep the one
and get rid of the 11.
but I don’t need any of them,
i say, so I put my two hands together
to make sure I have them all
but I don’t need them all.

so i lay them on the ground
and walk 12 paces from the pile
in a easterly direction,
then walk a perfect circle
around the pile
in a counterclockwise direction
until i reach the start of the circle,
then i walk to the middle.

i pick one from the pile,
and say, “I’ll take this one,”
then i put it back down
and pick another up and say,
“i want this one.”
then I put it down.

then i pick it up

then i put it down

then i pick it up

then i pick it up

then i put it down

then i put it down

and I say this will be a poem
and i say I’m just thinking out loud
and i say what am I going to do
and I say I’m doing it

 

Wassily Kandinsky. Several Circles. 1926. Oil on canvas. Via Olga's Gallery

Wassily Kandinsky. Several Circles. 1926. Oil on canvas. Via Olga’s Gallery

©A. D. Joyce, 2014