This poem of the Pirate's fits my past weekend perfectly - beautiful and solemn.
POEMS SENT BACK
Bubbles filled with poetry rise from
English cottages, abandoned Ohio warehouses
Mud huts in the desert, and school busses on their outings
These are the translucent spheres of emotion
Too three dimensional to stay on the page
Uniquely endowed to escape the gravity of language
In hopes of doing a somehow greater good
They hang momentarily in the air
Next to their authors who have last rights
To inspect their shifting globes of rainbows.
In this fragile state a mere touch of the finger
Can destroy, but the warm breath
Of acceptance will send them upward
Soap bubble gems on their way to heaven.
Where God, the owner of poetic chemistry
Touches these lighter than air offerings,
Reading and enjoying the hearts
Rembering their DNA, their fingerprints
All woven into all their words
And in so doing His touch gives weight
Adding to them the destiny of re-entry
Now marble size, white hot, and meteoric
Those untouched pass on
Becoming hardened outside the earth’s influence
To eventually become fuel for the
Ravenous sun furnace
Poetry sent back is like the
Person who dies, sees the bright tunnel
But is told they must return
For continued service in a postponed state of ecstasy.
So the good poetry, those that come back
When you rub one against your cheek
Always seem to have a certain density.
A kind of sadness because of postponement, But
at the same time
An ecstatic, violent beauty, which holds you
Adding miniscule, but divine weight to the reader.