RSS Feeds

Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

No Story

I could write my story
page by page,
item by item,
and it would not tell you anything.
My diaries lie,
my homilies lie.
They are all too self-absorbed,
a sponge trying to swallow a sea,
a madman who lost his childhood,
in search of his emptiness.
So that is why I don’t tell my story,
set it on a table
and cut it like bread,
because it doesn’t exist,
it goes away as soon as it happens,
and leaves nothing behind.

A postmark would do as well,
a box to receive letters,
and letters that would never be read,
but would lie in their darkness.
What then is my story?
Who comes to visit?
And I would tell you,
it is the heart of an apple,
the fragrance of an orange,
the tears of a child.
Someone lost on a corner
without a street,
a door to open,
someone to hold.
Just shadows,
and a street,
apples and fragrances,
and an open pail for a heart
dipping up sky.

Leave a Reply