Whole

Whole, they said, it is about being whole.

Whole, I said, is that a place where one

can be, or an idea of what one should be?

Or is it a dream, where birds fluff feathers

in ridiculous blues, reds, chestnut, where

life is shining and the dark days of monsoon

lie drowning in the dirty gutters of reality?

Is the peacock whole? Is it more complete

as it changes tone, reduced deep decibels,

relaces them with fluty cry, with trills and

echoes which ping as music, blends as one?

Or is being whole when I take the broken

rocks of self, the branches of spirit and

the dust of soul and mix them with the

water of emotion, to make the mud of me?

My lungs suck deep the teachings and the

should, wheezing as they cling and close,

the I of Me and the Me of I, as life demands

I swallow fermenting fruit in order, to be

whole.

 

 

 

Advertisements

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s