"To become ourselves we are these wayward things." - John Berryman
In a poem I unabashedly sing, I play/delight (as if in flight or free fall)in
the say of words as an array of voices.
Such may confuse or overwhelm
but I must say that I don't care (or at least not enough)since the muses
overtake a man and turn him songward "ever which a'way" as Carolina
mountain folks where I once lived do say.
Now I hear you in the plane cockpit shout CLEAR! then turns the prop.
You and I, a roaring boy beside you, veer toward runway's end, turn and
burn throttle full bore into eventual lift and air.
I realize now as an adult that you could breathe the better there, no doubt.
A spiritual asthmatic for 66 years now, for me, air's a struggle in both land and sky.
A poem, writing one, is where I breathe best.
Father,
Here's breath for you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem