Talking to the Sky – Sometimes/Words – A Poem

 

Talking to the SkyHey Everyone!

I’m doing formatting for my upcoming volume of poetry titled Talking to the Sky. I collected all of my poems from 2013. The poem Sometimes/Words was among them, but it wasn’t written in 2013, so it gets cut. I wrote it several years ago, I would say 2009

So I’m going to share it with all of you. Stay tuned for more info on what Talking to the Sky is all about.

Enjoy!

 

i

Sometimes

I steep myself in the words of another

Letting the words rush over me

Around me

In a protective embrace

Consonants harsh and sharp

Scrape along my skin

Vowels soft and yielding

Caress my tired body

ii

I open a book

Any book will do

I feel its pages rife with wisdom

As they slide between my fingers

Slick and wet

Black like oil spills

Across a white expanse

Just begging to bleed

Begging to bleed out the words

So that they can be free

iii

When I am sleeping

I can hear the words

The vowels whispering sweet nothing

The consonants jeering and cheering

Whispering Sweet Whispering

Begging me to look upon them

To open a book

To set them free

To let my eyes look upon them

So that they are given life

iv

I wake

I go to the books

Trying to quiet them

Before they wake the others

Before they wake their dreams

I stroke their spines

To settle them

And listen to their pages

Ruffle Shuffle Rustle

Whispering their words

Like a song or tribal melody.

v

I take down a book from the shelf

A big heavy book

A thick volume, pages

smell of dust and wishes.

I open the book to a random page

Ruffle Shuffle Rustle Whisper

“I do so love tea parties.”

Blond girl down the rabbit hole

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

A mad cackle from the man in a hat

I close the book, let the pages talk once more

Whisper Rustle Listen Hustle

vi

I look for another book

Try to find another story to lose myself in

I find a slim book

A thin book of dreams

Wiffle Whisper Muffle Wister

I remember him as if it were yesterday

Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

The Black Spot! It’s the Black Spot!

No, this will not do at all

I close the book, listening for the gossip

Whisper Sister Ruffle Hustle

vii

I search for another book

Like a treasure hunt X marks the spot

I look for another life

To hold in my hands

To feel the ink that slides along the pages

Pulse in my hands

Like a heartbeat

Pulse Throb Beat Pulse Throb Beat

I long to lose myself in the pages

To hide from the light

The bright light that blinds me

Inside the page of books

I am free

viii

I reach for a book

For another life

One with a green spine

I can feel the ink

Throb Beat Pulse

When I hold it, can feel the words

Whisper Muffle Wuffle Rustle

When I flip the book open

Striking red head with freckles

“I am Anne with an e”

I feel something stirring in my heart for this girl

“Can I really stay at Green Gables?”

Yes this will do nicely

I let the pages flip and slip so that they can talk

So that I can hear their gossip

Whisper Sister Muffle Wustle

Rustle Wuffle Whisper Mister

Whisper Whisper Whisper Whisper

ix

I want to stay

Within these pages

These words that

Pulse Throb Beat

Before my eyes

I want to lose myself in the page

Within the heart that beats

Inside this book

The words are calling to me

Singing their singsong songsing

Whisper Whisper Whisper Whisper

x

I slide my finger along the edge of a page

Let the page cut into me

Slide along the grooves in my finger

My finger print breaking open

With an offering

Blood wells to the surface of my skin

Like an oil spill

And the pages begin to

WHISPER WHISPER WHISPER WHISPER

Loudly, so loudly, so loud I can hear

Nothing else

Only the

whisper whisper WHISPER

Of the pages within my hands

Of the words that begin to swirl

like a wind filled with hope

As I hold my finger over a page

And watch as my blood begins to fall

Watch as it drops to the page like a kiss

Like a caress

Of black words along an expanse of white

I am in the words now

The words have become me

Sometimes words any day words

I have found my home

I have found my freedom.

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About Jamieson Wolf

Jamieson an award winning, Number One Best Selling Author. He writes in many different genre's. Learn more at www.jamiesonwolf.com
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