August 22, 2011 – we learned Angie died.

There’s a phrase turning in my head
— it’s still too new, too now to be of any use to me yet
but I know it’s about you – about a hope that I wanted to see fill you
and take your artist’s soul to the view that we all saw but you.
The wind, the very breath of life surrounded you with light and
yet you held yours. Standing firm in your resolve to be manic.

I keep wanting phrases stolen from other poets to be mine –
nerves sitting ceremonious like tombs while you –
just how did you lie down into?
Dickinson and Sexton would cringe at the lack of work in that.

But it’s all I have –
that and questions that have no voice to answer them now.

—————–

Second draft…. October 17, 2011 at 11:44pm

I think all creative endeavors – whether drawn with paint, words, notes or data – can sit on a stove, like a combination of roux and spices where things need to meld together. the first version of this was written the day I found out that a friend of mine had “from this world untimely ripped” herself, to bastardize Shakespeare. The 2nd, tonight, when I went looking for something else and realized the first version just wasn’t right. I always find comfort in returning to words.

 

2nd

A phrase is turning turns in my head
— still too new to be of use yet.
I know it once encircled you – yet now enshrouds.
it’s a hope I wanted to fill your artist’s soul —
take you to the view that we all saw.
it blinded you.
The wind, the very breath of life, surrounded you with light and yet you held yours.
Standing firm in your resolve to be manic.

I keep wanting phrases stolen from other poets to be mine –
nerves sitting ceremonious like tombs –
just how did you lie down into?
Dickinson and Sexton would cringe at the lack of work in that.
But it’s all I have –
and questions that have no voice to answer them now.