Guzlowski-Stepek: The Never-ending Poem

In the m orning we sit  and wait for solace  to burn forever, let mourning become dust The voices we had are lost. There are new whispers in the woods. Once I lived in a shell at the sea  and waited for the end to end.   It did and it always does.

Mourning we sit  and wait for sawdust  to turn to silver,  morning to become day But the voices we lost are here.   You can hear them in our words. Once I stood  on the shore of a sea  and waited for waiting to end.   It didn’t and did.

 When we mourn fragments come into being distinct from us they blow away in the wind travelling the world joining other fragments until a new whole is created Silence achieves this silence and wind and yes little birds carrying fragments like seeds that grow into new life forms such as Earth has never known before and it is made of you and me and all those we mourn and love we are life and we are death and we are fragments of the whole.

My silence and your silence  speak a language  we learned long ago  in a world where silence  moved the waves  and every sparrow  flew on wings of silence  into our eyes We stare into the sky now and know each word on the page  is an orphan bird Nothing brings us  closer to that

My cup overflows grapes on my plate black, red, green I count them there are none and no colours exist Always a gap. The gap exists for voices to connect a railway bridge across a chasm. The voices echo through the ages the space, filled with love and pain forms the bridge It is always too late always just at the right time to be always too late hands cup to shelter a sparrow but the bird, too scare to land flies off, seeking surer refuge and ends up nowhere but tomorrow and that's no place to rest.

Waiting for Stepek  I count the words on my plate,  the ones in my cup.   Is it already day,  already tomorrow?   I remember once  his voice from far away  coming through the lines  that tried to bridge  the space between us.   I should have stood up, walked to him, taken his hand,  said hello, but fear came  like a sudden sparrow  and I turned from him  like I turn from joy or sorrow.

Waiting for Guzlowski. He's worth the wait. He says we're living in crazy times. This means he's sane which is a major problem you have to be crazy to be sane in crazy times.

Someone's hand reaches out I take it. It's mine.

The cup is here, the water too.  One sits inside the other  and both sit on a slope  just beyond my reach,  but there’s nothing  to worry about. My eyes drink the one  and hold the other  and wait for another hand  to come and bring them  both to me. Whose hand? Someone’s hand.

Please, some water in a cup. I cannot wait. Or poured onto my shrivelled hands, cupped, wanting, beggared. I speak a language only bleached bones comprehend. Water at the well, please water in a swollen cup.

I come to this April  because I cannot come to that. That speaks a language  that is all wooden bones. Perhaps if I waited and poured  some water in a cup, This day would not become  the day it was.