On which everything’s riding

Silent wonder while the others
pontificate and promise
vengeance, wrath of their god
of military might and terrible
secrets.

My childhood flower opening
perspicacious unpuzzling
each hushed telling behind closed
places dank with must
survive.

A fine art so sometimes
I forget my strength, surrounded
by these boxes of toxins
ancient taint familiar, a scent like
home.

Just now, an eagle
lopes the overcast sky,
the high view and miles
spinning into patterns I’ll miss
scrying.

Stilling every song,
we are all watchful in
the forest stretched here
along the water. I track
grateful

as a granddaughter, respect
symptoms like the yoke
of winter lifting still poised
on this threshold lake like a
witch.

A morning muse inspired by Pontificate, Perspicacious, Flower, Vengeance, Water and Ian Anderson’s The Secret Language of Birds.

Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

13 thoughts on “On which everything’s riding”

  1. Your closing lines evoke a wicked unforgettable image.m The style of the poem intrigues me; words and thoughts stream past like throbs of Cummings, singing by Sartre, disjointed yet cohesive.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s