In the sunlit silence of secret song, the tar
tarnishes the air: thick and heavy. I
idolise trees, floating under a green canopy,
peeling away a forgotten thought, and here,
hearing only the roar of that wild guitar,
tarry rush of tyres and the almost silent
lint of thoughts falling away, I can stride
stridently: I am only an endless movement
minted in each moment of slipping past
pastoral snatches: that leaf, that rough
ruff of flowers rising around the careless
listful light. Around my bones, muscles
silkily slide and nothing can be asked of me
(meetings, emails, message replies, the endless litany,
needing, always) and I check nothing,
think nothing but this: this is the song and the route,
rooting my breath and my on-my-own self,
selfishly striding, the trees and the tar and the music:
Icarus himself never flew this high.
Thanks to Napowrimo.net for the prompt to write a self-portrait through an unusual activity and to The Writers' Greenhouse for the prompt to write a chain poem.
See the new NaPoWriMo poems as they pop up, complete with pics of the handwritten drafts, and suggest titles for them, via whatever social media you call home:
All my poems on this site are now #FreeForPoets to play with, to write hybrid forms such as glosas, coupling poems, golden shovels, acrostics, centos, and erasures. Full permissions here: #FreeForPoets.