I recite my poem "Parade" this week. 7/9-10/13

Parade

October 2-3, 1998

Cocoa flesh,

Or haven't you guessed?

Don't you know me by now?

I am grass made golden

blades, baked by an Indian summer.

Though my head is in a book,

I see my own world;

Ballards aren't my making.

Parades of me, awn and leaf, crisp,

rich in autumnal brown.

Headstrong with whatever prose

comes spewing forth,

My body is ample, my spirit's a

sample, my mind is a partial

force.

Obtrusive states that I create,

a cocoon flowering at any time.

Huntsvillian hopeful to remember

home, soil of my Tennessee Valley.

I am limited, however,

That mass of mist that cradles

the diamond of deceit - the jewel

that shouldn't of offered me more.

Gathered in a grand garden are those

iridescent occupants:

A dulcet choir that trains my

dreamworld with tracable cadence:

"I and I and you and you and we

and we and to be and to be and

the collective we'll be - come to me."

To withdraw from this lovely appeal,

on occasion, is my way; nontheless,

I will know the minus of instating

that something lambent, in the

coming days - I shall deal with it.

Becalming such joy, I do employ,

are fundamental for my part-time,

erroneous equation.

I espy every shade and every light,

I crumble dry earth in my hands,

I fumble over muddy puddles after

the rain.

I dote over neighborly pets. This

is the start of an outing.

I am entranced by the winds - when

they come - that carries both the

silent and the base voices of the

of the world,

I am a stargazer with little knowledge

of the constellation;

I stand the sunshine.

I labor in the teeth-chattering snows;

If I could, I'd embroider the edges

of new beginnings with silk lace.

Nothing more than mentioning could

make it towards the end, so I'll

wait with only a friendly image,

until it turns around again.

© 1998 Jarrod C. Lacy

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