This moment is the one
where we know there is a connection point,
a constellation of experience.
One must simply connect the dots,
appreciating the nuances of shade.
No one can be put on pillars anymore,
the truth always comes out,
the messiah figure with the drug problem.
Today’s crime is an expression
of yesterday’s common practice
and the time words became crazy,
life coming in sudden manic motions,
can be traced back like heritage
to the unkind words of a father
or the sullen face of a stranger,
a harsh word wandering like a stray cat.
When the rainbow showed up, the stories
say it was a promise, but that was images
and eons ago. That was at least two
legends removed from certainty.
Now the main character in the story
has begun to suspect his plight as a picaresque
plot-plodding figment and he knows
the last page approaches,
a cliff on cleverly bound paper.
The narrative can no longer be trusted,
just like patchwork, like a quilt language,
or the way light moves faster, blending colors,
Joyce saying, Let’s do something new.
J.D. DeHart is a writer and teacher. He makes his home in the United States. DeHart is the author of the poetry collection, The Truth About Snails, which was published in 2014 by Red Dashboard and is available on Amazon. His poetry has also appeared at Leaves of Ink, The Poet Community, Visual Verse, and a variety of other sites. DeHart has published short stories and some nonfiction, as well. Currently, more work can be found at http://jddehartfeaturepoems.blogspot.com/.
There is a conversation here
I am not aware of, a group of words clustering,
looking for a new home
There is a meaning hidden, like a child
playing a game, tucked inside a line,
a Derrida-like violence to language
What I have said is what I have said
but then that word passes through the mind
and like a prism, bends the light
And what we are left with
is the best we can do to love each other
with syllables and syntax.
thistles stretch their prickly arms afar