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The Poetry Page

Ute Margaret Saine

2

  

                           

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The Hourglass Moment

 

This is the moment to

turn the hourglass around
time had run through

it had almost run its course
now weíve found each other

round the bend lies the new

 

life made from of the same

trickling grains of sand
that viewed from upside down

seem more magnificent


As from a kaleidoscope
shaken again and again
emerges beauty and order

 

unforeseen just like you

and yet seen as the light

in your eyes

 

I will only smile

and abide by this light

between us that shines

at a might of hunger and love

 

This is moment

time has been found

a time that was run through

this is our moment

to turn the hourglass around

 

Afternoon

 

 

The sun puts the clouds

on the table

between the glasses

and the crackers

a piece of luminous sky

between floating smiles

 

bits of todayís heaven

come down to us

as a light

right here looking into

each otherís eyes

 

How Animals Move

  

Placid or doomed

nervously pacing the fence line

swishing their tails

the chewers the sighers the scratchers

those who bicker and fuss

and those who just stare

those who roll in the grass

those who cry out curdling the air

who seem to lug their bodies

home to nowhere

all the way home

 

And some

who in their strange tongue

call out to me

 

Going South

 

Do I know the way home

when the way home for me

is to go far out

into the world

 

of summers and springs

holding onto a suitcase

 

I carry all thatís mine with me

says the philosopher

and it means

carry very little, only

 

for the humblest needs

of body and mind

 

Mining the world

with mine eyes and ears

and other given senses

 

Mining friendsí eyes and brows

the knowledge of their town

their laughs

and meeting their friends

 

Mining the world

maybe

with a sixth sense

and maybe even going south

Fingering

 

What I had under my fingers

Third down over the thumb

Though it didnít at first make sense

Is still under my fingers

Decades later as I listen to

Glenn Gould playing

Bachís Italian Concerto

 

My fingers remember

The lonely contemplative

Voice of the second movement

Ranging is small second steps

And big sixth or seventh jumps

With my fingers not jumbled

But behaving sagaciously

As though the music

Had been written for them

 

And it was

 

Haiku

 

the morning rising

on the edges of the seen

asks us for the dream

 

~~~

 

I write always write

Iím writing to remember

writing to forget

 

if it flies, let it

sing in rain and shine, let it

fly out of your hands

 

you see some red leaves

and you think of fall before

summer ever came

 

small world an absurd

cage of words, my rattling bones

haunted by desire

 

we are like mayflies

like insects caught in amber

happy one moment

 

your shadow when you

arise dances on my walls:

the house is happy

 

~~~

 

we canít see the moon
it has not reached us yet
and would be useless

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