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The Poetry Of.
Peggy Dobreer...............................................
Initiates Love Again
I.
Inside the sound of rain
where loneliness pools,
the low tide pillars of night.
I am without you,
-.-.-.-.
the invisible who
-.-.-.-.
the unknown not to be.
I am without you,
-.-.-.-.
the still span of your wings,
-.-.-.-.
the easy spread of mine
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in your shadow
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in your splendid grasp
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
in your favor.
I am without you
II.
Perhaps just sitting
with blank pages
will rewrite the
broken wing of heart.
The slosh of ink o
ver linen parchment,
like celadon moss
parts on swamp water,
and permits passage
through everglades.
Plena Luna pre
sides over the mist.
I cannot fall a
sleep below it.
My pen fails to
anoint the hidden dawn,
rushes to find its
way across the page.
III.
In felt mornings
-.-.-.-.
drawn tight in the
-.-.-.-.
shrinkage of disappointment,
I enter the tunnel of longing.
-.-.-.-.
There is light at the point of entry.
A trench coated shadow approaches,
-.-.-.-.
like death walking toward me
-.-.-.-.
out of the condensation.
I am purified like butter.
I am washed like a meadow
-.-.-.-.
in a phantom storm.
I am the eye itself,
-.-.-.-.
the sharp tongue of regret,
-.-.-.-.
the bell of autumn,
-.-.-.-.
worn on your sleeve.
IV.
I will write today in the practice of penmanship, nothing more, because
a real poet, it seems, would have reams of handwritten text, pourings
of the heart, rants of passion, and wordy verses that have little, or
none, passion, that is, but written still, in a way, interesting, in
and of itself; wet squid sizzling on embers of wood grain, and what is
revealed in the slant of certain script, the flourish of augmented
letters, the breaking heart behind salt soaked pages, the laughter
jumping out of double vowels like oopsy, and the saints who pray among
the consonants?
My alphabet heart is like scratched soup that goes down like honey and
burns like sugar, raises flags of peace among polar opposites, and
waves them through sandstorms. Although one cannot see beyond the tip
of the pen, here comes the edge of the page, now. The closing of this
chapter is near.
V.
In the reservoir of the moon
-.-.-.-.
at full capacity,
the dark sky clears into midnight
-.-.-.-.
for the menses spectacle.
O white pie faced goddess
-.-.-.-.
O skirt of the divine
O dervish outcast,
-.-.-.-.
moon of mine.
This night’s moon of mine,
-.-.-.-.
initiates love again.
