poem

 The NominalistWe ’re all seeking it Can ' t quite put a finger on itNot sure what to call it.Try to name it and there ’s a gapA skip in the recordA sigh instead of soothing wordsA pause when the poet Runs out of breath beforeShe can conjure the next rhyme Leave some spaces on the page Where the words can breatheAnd figure out for themselves What they want to mean But that ’s a lieThe best pausesLack all meaning While remaining indispensable.Em dash periods of ellipses Frantic gestures of her handsCutting and twirling through empty airsAmplifying the clumsinessOf desiccated words Some muttermy god, my lord, my saviorNot to knock prayer but Silence is even better.The best approach if you feelThe need to speak is a lousy poemThat careens down dusty hallsCrashes through hedges and gardens And tears a hole in your heartJust before it brings it all together The root of all religion, in fact,Is a poem not godFor god is too busyLocked in his studyTrying to find the perfect Rhyme for shalt or begottenJust write your poemIf you want to find the proofOf whatever is left of god  Let ’s read it togetherThis triumvirate of words Do you like the sound of my voiceThe caress of your fingers on my arm Doesn ’t it feel nice?Let ' s call this kinshipLet ' s call it loveSo I know what to call itWhen I ask myself why. I ’m a nominalistI don ' t know a damn thingExcept the words in front of m...

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - August 3, 2022 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs