In the current absence of trading post folly,
Your anthem lets out a victorious cry,
A spirited trumpeting,
cause for celebration,
An opening door to a previous time
echoed vocals of a place once told,
Smattering substance of memory box trinkets
notes, letters, jots, unfold
Spirit of bloodline rages thru the sickened form
which has taken function & form,
far too soon.
Yet you-are not defeated.
Creation of the moment,
in a flash, awareness,
your power pulses thru these tunnels once cold.
Nary is a moment lacking full connection.
A body lost, a bolt attained.
Your eruption, cradled by the whispering forrest
Pushing seeds thru the molten surface
A baton juggled from the once weary athlete
crippled no more by the cramping swallow,
knowing training will carry on still,
this life for feeling. numbness abound.
Trove unfold to the powerous rapture,
trickling water drip,
of time maintained.
Speak to me in echoes.
On top of the mountains thunder.
Clapping metronome to tame this cavernous ride.
"Today, I begin to deface the perfection of this notebook with my writing. I can only hope that someone beside me, can appreciate the necessity of doing so"
12/5/12
Linda McElhare
With insecurities everywhere, it's no wonder, she often wrote in shadows. Misunderstood still, even by those who knew and loved her best. Myself included. The idea that she just felt so much, all at once. Seemingly un-maintained. Begging, in whispers for someone to hear her voice. If not grace than with fury. I understand now.
To be something in this life, yet having it not be a contributing factor financially is a fallacy of this World. Such is the challenge of being a writer.
Comments