“For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
in the valley of its making where executives
would never want to tamper, flows on south
from ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives
A way of happening, a mouth….”
W. B. Yeats
For Laura
by Don Share
While we were swimming, a butterfly
dipped past the pool.
Sunshine forced the ripples
to glow like bent halos,
and the black marker lines shivered
like brain waves in their final cogitations.
What were your thoughts as the butterfly
drifted to feed in the weeds?
Why did the one and only sea breeze
tip the treetops with false stars?
I only know that as my hands passed over
and around you, time endstopped,
and that we leaned back from our last kiss
the way one tree bends away from another for light.
There are poems that I have written that exist in the ether of the cloud that is my google chrome book that I rarely read, I have nearly forgotten about them. The Armor of You is one such poem. I wrote this poem back in 2017 and I hadn’t read it in years, until I came across it the other day unexpectedly. It”s almost like reading someone else’s words. I have been fighting multiple battles lately; without – within, and I identified with this poem immediately. It’s funny how poetry connects with me differently over time, as Yeats describes; “different towns that we believe and die in.” Do you have a poem that recently has taken on different emphasis or meaning? Which one? Why?
The Armor of You
by T. A. Fry
The rebel yell of this swirling blaze
Is a decibel below the loudest loud.
The hungry silence of my lover’s gaze
Lifts rabble above the madding crowd.
Withdraw from battles; without – within.
Find a meadow where the sweet grass dries.
Summer’s gold-green smoldering on feathered winds;
Smudging primeval cord blood of its cries.
Gird the armor of you across my best.
Cinch your Love around my breast.
Paint faithful Magic on my chest.
Loss subsumes the ebullience of it’s guests;
Chiding complainers who overstay
The inevitable colt of disarray.
Fourteen Lines 