Illumination

If I ever "waited for inspiration's shove," it was in my lost gift for writing poetry. At least, a "gift" is what my best friend described it as, as if I was holding this inside of me for the last 17 years and should let it out for the world to see. I was surprisingly pleased, myself, with the end product of my first poem since college, which still has not (to my knowledge) been read by the muse who inspired it. I felt that it expressed sentiment I couldn't otherwise express or certainly voice aloud. If I waited for "society's kiss on the forehead" to write him the poem, it never would've happened at all. I don't wait for society's kiss to do ANYTHING, which has it's good and bad points and end results. The above quote, attributed anonymously, says to "stay eager." Of that, I'm certain I will.

Thus, I present my 1st original poem in 17 years, "Illumination." As I said in a previous blog, I wrote it by hand with a pen and a notebook, augmented by a thesaurus for the most eloquent word, out in the warm sunshine in mid-March. (No, it may not be copied, used, or reprinted, or even printed out without my permission. As is everything on my blog, it is copyrighted. Critiques are, however, welcomed.)

Illumination

I swear you once mentioned

Your Christmas lights are left outdoors

All-year-round;

Lit only on occasions proper,

Dangling,

Unaware of the changes in season.

A seemingly irreplaceable decoration

That surely must be

Tinkered with, twiddled

Untangled and adjusted from time to time.

So you blow the snow away

Perhaps by their twinkle in winter.

You cut grass

As the light bulbs start to crack, weathered.

You grow flowers underneath

In the same beds, warmly

And they blossom, unfailingly.

While the wind and the rain

And the leaves and the twigs

Bundle your gutters;

Storms threaten to tear the roof

Off an otherwise solid structure.

Structure.

To-do lists.

Complacency.

Obligations.

Order.

Kinship.

Lineage.

Comfort.

Happiness.

Eventually, the lights outside

Will have to dismantle; worn, irrepairable.

Your house, your fortress…

Unfamiliar, unsettled.

You dutifully drive off to replace them.

Out of contentment or out of demand?

The advent returns.

Requisite ornamentation, memories, keepsakes

To unpack and adorn once again.

The new lights are vivid, not pearly flushed.

And not what you were supposed to buy.

Now distracted by demented beauty,

Your steadiness on the ladder askew.

Askew.

Unsullied.

Liberated.

Renovated.

Unconstrained.

Magnetic.

Melodious.

Limitless.

Unfathomable.

Building a fire to admire them by,

You choose solitude. Reflection.

A hardy pit and perspiring Glenfiddich

Glow your dimpled yet hesitant smile.

Cast loose, you’d undoubtedly flail.

Vacated involuntary, though,

The distinct safeguard

Of the wind you deem “friend”

Would never howl forcefully enough

To waver your fortress away.

Andrea Miklasz

3/18/2012