Figuratively Speaking

Sometimes love
may curl into the vein
of its own variant testimony
of spiritual realm in a maple leaf,
a sort of resting place acquired
through give and take of entering
into its peace.

As it retreats
into the shadow's pocket
of boundaries secure
and feel a safety net in such dimension
of sight and sound.

Necessary pungent chirps
blow an awakening of such
caught glances
of token feelings intermingling
with expression of its song,

which blow nicely, somehow,
as one takes on the emotions
it labored so hard to forget
and understand
the hardening on the very thing,
it wanted to forget.

The insensitivity of bygone meetings
that make no sense
but leave picket impressions,

change for some
took on a different path,
and place to hang hat.

To be put in places
by such perpetrators of unrest
of flapping their broken truths
to get off their ground,

when reality
is just not right again
in the holding pattern of love's embrace.

Copyright © Patricia Fritsche 2003

Ground Zero

I always wondered,
who made the Blacksmith's shoes?

Being there
in the other guy's kneeling place,
that rare moment of steam-rolling
of pounding it in, good and hard,
in its revolving pursuance;
couldn't run very far without it.

Seeing something of yourself
in fleabitten soles,
and who will have the head
in den, that it is so easy to assume,
how it will eventually end.

As each trophy of Arabian nights
flies to the finish line,
the win, place, and show thing arrives.

As full bellies joust the bigger of the
on the mark set,
still waiting for that gun
to go off in their head.

Only way, I guess,
to motivate
the stride of the patterned race.
Continuing on
straw fixed firmly in barley teeth,
gotcha again.

Hanging out in the center of
homey bales, and other irrelevant stuff,
getting to know the real you.

Not pickled, somehow,
in self-pity, pitiful mare.

But the beauty of the
commitment;
as it falls to the feet of a metaphor,
as Simon says, "play dead, again, or not."

Copyright © Patricia Fritsche 2003