Being T.S. Eliot (with apologies to J. Alfred Prufrock)

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.  –William Wordsworth

Let us go then you and I,
Where time stands still and I cease to try
To silence my soul for I’m not able. 
Let me toss these lenses and naked peek
Photoshopped memories that speak
Of ersatz wholesome holiness
And ominous churches with musty smells,
Prayers that save me from eternal hell.
Nefarious streets may eat me whole
If I eschew the assigned role. 
Which drags me to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not pretend you know the answer.
We cannot see, but know this cancer. 

In the room the women come and go
Talking of dress size and weight plateaus.

The silver rain that drums its fingers on marshy grasses,
The smoky fog that clings to barnacled rocks
Like a desperate lover jilted in wee hours.
Lingers upon shards of broken shells
Oh, the temptation to drown in peaceful waves of Prozac oblivion. 
Like a pink ribbon-trimmed baby’s blanket. 
But seeing it is nearly light,
Pop an Ambien and turn out the night.

And indeed there will be a price,
For the smoky fog that cries upon the beach
Drumming anxious fingers upon the deaf.
There will be time, it will be mine. 
To fearlessly sing, with full elation.
There will be time to birth and create,
And time for all the poems to write.
Censored not to bury the light,
Time is finite for you and me
My soul roars in tsunami
With each new analogy.
And the only voice I shall heed
Is the one that comes from inside me. 

In the room the women come and go
Talking of butt size and weight plateaus.

And indeed there is always a price
“What if?” and “Who cares?”
Should I have turned the car around?
To secretarial school. 
I could have been a soccer mom
Or a pool club doctor’s wife.
They will say: “She needs a haircut.”
My worn out jeans plaster my behind,
My jewelry modest, my Timex scratched.
They will say: “How dare she thinks highly of herself.”

For I have hidden from them all.
Have closed the windows so they can’t hear,
Verbal abuse in a Corningware mug.
But measured life with their praise.
Now the waves sing from beyond.
Telling me that I’ve been conned. 

I have heard their whispers without sound,
Eyes that scan head to toe.
And when I am scratching to get out of my skin
With my hair swimming in a toilet bowl
Then how should I make a sound
That could grow in fertile ground?

In the room the women come and go
Talking of malls and weight plateaus.

Shall I say I have awakened in the night
And watched the clock hands tick off my life. 
Frozen like an ant in amber?

I have dreamed of tender touch
A shawl drapes the shoulders of humanity.

Would I have been wiser, in retrospect
After the music and poetry
After the casserole and petits fours
If bundled in a shroud of righteousness
I turned back to that fearsome god
And said, “I was wrong, I was wrong.”

I grow bold, I grow bold.
I shall wear my hair long and braided.

Shall I dare to write a poem?  To waltz across the ocean?
I shall stroll barefoot through the garden
Where my feet hear god in soil and sea.

I know she speaks within me. 

I have worn their robes in ill-lit rooms
Pouring my heart into the current style
Wavering terror with  a smile. 

I have tarried in the corners of this cave
In futile darkness flickers sequined dreams
Unraveling these basted seams.

Comments

[Rick Powell]

Be bold
Take off your shoes
And dig your feet
Into the earth and sea
And listen only
To it's advice

[Scott]

Nice, Ann. This made me think of my favorite Poe passage..."I stand amid the roar of a serf tormented shore...oh God can I not save but one from the pitiless wave?"

Keep keepin it real.