This finely ribbed, tense, trembling bridge

My beard will quiver passing
ankles and my heart flare chests
of poppies on an island* where
two orphans as one hero once
carried water dreams among twisted
vegetables in baskets woven from children of clouds by children
of wide footed fathers

As my marrow body dissipates, my soul flows larger
and larger
I have an idea, an inspiration, Float me to Paris!
To the Pont des Arts where this all began**
Place me down into my footsteps
to walk again across
and across
this finely ribbed, tense, trembling bridge

clever little you, are you returning
to your self, your sanity, your
sanctity? Do you remember clean
hands and a pure heart, clever
little you? Do you remember to be
honest and thankful always?

clever nods, and with his hand upon the lip of his liver, There are no hours
Let God play God
Let caesars play God
[aside] (It is a thankless occupation anyway)
I am here to float between
and trust life--

Yes, yes, that’s all very perceptive
and cerulean. Just remember,
clever little you, each step
suggests the next. Frustration
breeds frustration; and faith breeds
faith.

Yesterday, I was lying on my left side--
As the pain diminished my father suddenly
appeared. We discussed how he had not done
a good job as a father--and, then, agreed
that he had done the best that he could.
I would have gladly left us on this grace
note of forgiveness when I turned to him and said,
But you’re fired.

clever little you, remember each step suggests the next.
Frustration breeds frustration; faith breeds faith.
Clean hands, clean hands, pure heart

Last night I dreamt my ribs were garden fence
posts, white pointed pickets that have contained
my seething. I kicked two in to release the anger and allow it to
gush forth.

clever, clever, clever little



*Skyros, an island in the Greek Aegean

* * Le Pont des Arts is a foot bridge which crosses
the Seine, a “suspended garden” designed during
the reign of Napoleon to lead into the Palais des Arts,
the Louvre. An eighteen year old student of French
poetry began his vocation here with an acoustic guitar.
His pockets may have been occasionally empty but
Fammerée was brimming as he meditated on the river,
its hieroglyphic reflections of continuous story and warm,
sculpted banks where troubadours in previous centuries
experimented and performed in the same forms.




This finely ribbed, tense, trembling bridge [#65]
© 2010 Fammerée


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Richard Fammerée
fammeree.com
fammeree@att.net
director@universeofpoetry.org


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Photograph by Susan Aurinko

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