(Arthur Pivtorak)
The image reminds me of the movie "Picnic at Hanging Rock." It is reminiscent of the young actress, the pretty one that goes missing, that wanders into the fearful unknown, seemingly unaware of the fear, drawn to it. It is one of the most beautiful and haunting scenes of any movie ever made. I could watch that scene over and over, I have. It is a mystery about mysteries. It is deeply frightening and imprecise and beautiful and lasting.
Here is another poem to anger my readers. It was written long ago about my mixed feelings for opiates.
So be it.
owning the grease, the yearn.
and who are we to say,
or love our ways.
ode to glissando burning, falling
what are we to think
of that gentle glowing know:
it works,
in dreams
it sinks
it turns
our charred
learnings
it twists our scarred burns
ever returning,
ever calling
fall into my arm,
lover, light as leaves
breathe easy...
the autumn wind still deceives me
be still, hushed harm,
it's just some dust.
float aside
abide,
for now,
its quiet climbing rust.
it is aroma,
fragrance
oh, dear... its odor,
its power
we must not talk,
never proclaim
thinkers think…
they say it's all the same.
no great minds
have ever thought alike.
they only agree,
they say
let them talk
but let's need
it is agreed.
when are we to hide
when are we to mourn
we drink the things we drink.
owed to the seed, we adjourn.
when our lover is love,
the mourners mourn
ode to the grecian burn.
owed to the burning yearn.
s.c.
.
