Portions of me are hid within my soul:
a wild serenity; passion couched in reflection,
beneath a weary semblance of control
there breathlessly anticipate perfection.
And in some rare sweet moments of each day
life’s rush subsides; the clamoring world is still.
With chaos hushed by evening, then I’ll say
what may be said and hungry silence fill
with precious seconds—voiceless thoughts rehearsed
to peel back layers shielding who we were.
Here lying sundered listening to the universe,
its silent realizations wake and stir.
Then minds, though sure embraced when first they met,
convergence of the heart may hope for yet.
One step forward,
tentative, unsure, nearly drawing back.
Hands change their grip.
Another step follows the first,
leaving behind the safety of a cliff’s edge.
Universe tilts and whirls.
If God gave us wings
would this be too easy?
Would we flit, dip, and dive on
the currents of the wind
and never know the panic
of plummeting?
Don’t look down, they say.
The more likely you’ll lose balance.
But I look, and see the earth anew:
Shimmering seas sparked by a blinding sun,
meadows of lavender and mountains of jade.
Indecision grips, shakes resolve.
Shall I step yet again? Or relent
and dive from this high-wire o’er paradise?
Three messengers God sent you,
as to Abraham our father,
to give you promise and a future.
They ate your food and
drank your drink,
these guests, these gifts.
So neither weary of the visit
nor laugh at the promise.
For dreams of yesterday are vapor,
condensing on a darkened glass and
creating a misshapen world,
twisting the future as
through a lens encrusted in frost.
Press your hand against the window
to wipe away the mist,
and tomorrow bursts into clarity.
Shadows once blurred bloom
in a vivid panoply of color when
you gaze past the pane.
For there may your messengers—
gifts—like frankincense, gold, and myrrh,
bow low before their Lord of glory.
It does not always look like this.
Sometimes it’s a pulsing glow,
illuminating the night like Aurora,
blue and green quilted tentacles
reaching across the sky,
hoping in vain to grasp
the milky pathway of the heavens.
Once it was the Louvre,
a gallery of memories:
tragedy, gallantry, and delight,
looked upon by empty gazes
and brush-stroked eyes
cracking with age.
Yesterday it was sunset:
a subconscious meadow
of dubious flora
and swimming vistas,
where the green of the fields made
daylight stark and gray.
Tonight it is a hole of black water,
and I know not where it leads;
a cosmic doorway to another world,
but I know that I shall wake
on the other side,
wherever that may be.
I stretch and dive. Perfect 10?
No Broadcast, Personal, Poetry | Christopher Kou | 
October 9, 2009 4:30 PM | 
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