Rue George Sand


Honey singing splash through puddles
Or a locust voice shouting depending how it falls
Hissing steam of soundless soul tortures
Bursting dam of huge foam and pent-up waters
Green light flight from the roar of raging beasts

Half-grown hop across Red Sea roads
Through the pulse of the circling of traffic in the town
Suns shine: blood-coloured, flesh-coloured, blue
Dance on one leg Rabelaisian and strange
A mad old Chinese medieval saint

Leaping mouse through a snow-white world
Full or empty wine barrel – such a lonely roller
A star set adrift in Gallic seas
Floating with tides – yoyo prayer wheel voice lifted
Throat free from stained glass hands of the church clock

~~~~~ ~ ~~~~~
Recapturing a drunken evening in Tours, France many years back.

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on February 21, 2019, in Poetry, Writing and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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