This Morning, Four Years Later, Still Lovely

[Those of you with a formal education in poetry should, I hope, understand the structure of the following poem. But even if you dislike poetry, or have no training in poetic forms at all, I don't think you'll feel you've wasted your time in reading what follows. Peace to you, on this important date in history.]

The List Is Long

The list is long of lovely things:
the rhythmic pulse in baby’s cry
lift of air on butterfly wings
glint of sun in a lover’s eye.

The list is long of lovely things:
the beat of heart in human ears
trumpet of geese on autumn wings,
whispers soft, soothing sleepy fears.

What man is this who finds no solace there
no refuge in the parade of sunsets
in the verse of poets, or potter’s ware,
no delight in composer’s minuets?

What man is this who cannot dance
at the trinkling song of silver stream
or praise the lure of blossomed plants
or laughter merrier than a comic’s dream?

Who can reject the smell of newborn skin
dewy grass cooling naked feet
absolution from staining sin,
or songs of minstrels on evening street?

There is the call of coyotes on a windy night
the yelp of lonely fox and hoot of distant owl
there is the mood of waning moonlight,
and the smell of clean in softness of towel.

There is the charm of little girls
starlight strands of milky pearls
the love of dirt on little boys
rooms cluttered with belovéd toys.

There’s roaring sea in frothy surf
or the froth of a pint in a Yorkshire pub
September light on newly-mown turf
and the warmth of bath in a claw-foot tub.

There’s curve of breast beneath gossamer thread
the taste and smell of grandmother’s bread
the length of limb and strength of stride
of bridles and horses and riders allied.

These things remain, you came to destroy
even the poetry with your prosaic ploy,
you’ve shattered rhythm and scattered rhyme
but mysteries prevail over this shock of time:

The monarch still emerges, eager for flight,
birds gather on eastern coast, migrating over Manhattan
dogs still fetch sticks and cats rub whiskers on morning legs
fish leap through liquid ceilings gaping for water-logged bugs.

Snow still falls, and rain, and autumn leaves
the moon still pulls oceans towards its arid plains
and the plains host waves of grain and meadowlarks
while desert winds sweep earth’s furnaced floors.

The rose still shares improbable bloom
and roses still bloom on maiden cheeks
when roses come by hand of gentle man,
like the sky blushing at the evening sun.

The list is long of lovely things:
which of these was not enough
to keep you aloft, to set you flying?

Which sunset made you hate
the sound of your beating heart
always willing, optimistic, in your breast?

Which sunrise cloud,
or glass of wine
which mountain lake
or desert bloom
which taste of apple or peach
which word of poet or prayer of priest
which low of calf or coo of dove
which light of star, which square of infinite
space,
which scent of woman
which laughing child
which symphony
or saint
or touch of water on skin

which was it,
that made you steer

your anger and fear and
loathing

which of these made you jettison
the long list of lovely things
into the side of a building?

The list is long of lovely things:
the pale of sun in dawning sky,
the clearing of smoke
and the touch of a loved one lost,
touched through love’s perennial hope.

©Bill Gnade 28 Sept 2001/Contratimes
The list of 2,752.