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    Immediacy
    Immediacy
    Immediacy
    Ebook72 pages48 minutes

    Immediacy

    By Rod Cockrum

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Intense personal expression defines Immediacy. The poems convey meaningfully our feelings and experiences and thoughtfully peak our interests in a range of subjects. Each poems has individuality, concise phrasing and thoughtful structure. Varying rhythms enliven the reading.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateAug 6, 2013
    ISBN9781483551753
    Immediacy

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      Book preview

      Immediacy - Rod Cockrum

      Cockrum

      IMMEDIACY

      Spring foments nature and promises personal integration of feeling and movement. A friendly sun bakes freely and bares its warm intended routine. Mornings reflect their solitary segment of familiarity.

      Extended strides awaken universal vessels; pumping feelings end in fleeting glow, and every effort synchronizes its promising, fulfilling path.

      Lofty time presses pleasant images into weakening eyes during every lull and repose. Time engages and justifies itself without a reactionary preponderance, yet seems dangerous and wasteful.

      Time passes, then sluggish cells begin a taboo of desire and survival. They grasp every opportunity to perpetuate, stimulate and conjoin. Invigorated cells practice eternal satisfaction, perfect the lunging goose step, alienate the innocent and eliminate the necessary.

      Aggressions and deceits ply their way through vivid and balanced perceptions. They commingle, opine and influence the friendly hordes; unchecked, unobserved but obvious, they tear the fabric of cohesive structures and lay basis for unchallenged power. Their immediacy overwhelms.

      Aggressions and deceits collapse the protective umbrella of unawareness. Our ridiculously feeble responses come too little, too soon.

      We continue forward awkwardly with our forgotten intentions, while our broken wills enter benevolent uncertainty.

      A perpetrated calm encloses our conscious endeavors. Life is segmented for profit and show. Every unexplained day creases into another. Values are repeatedly displaced to memory, relabeled and referenced to disconnect.

      We look back to find an original path or valuable goal that may breath life to our ever-changing stunned existence, but jealous visions stop us dead.

      We lunge feebly until our steps feel solid surface; our motion rocks forward.

      Motion is only motion, and the advancing chilly evenings bite our occasionally laughing lips. Looming flat destiny and unrelated energies thwart again and again our advance to completeness, unfettered interaction and domination. We wither unfulfilled and want still a closeness that ends all craving.

      We continue apart and anxious.

      We grasp uncontrollably at passing, imagined necessities. We give their tentative characteristics the power to nurture and satisfy every expressed need of every moment yet remain always unfulfilled.

      We finish the narrated overview of unappeased lives, then legends of ourselves pass into eras that need no reiteration of actions-- a smoother motion. Truth beckons every stirring desire, assists every feigned gesture and justifies any unanswered question. The billowing evidence of immediacy nudges us to completion.

      HURRY PAST

      Hurry past the boulevard step by step under the sun.

      Hurry past the rivered houses as the swoop-neck white dot of a crane in high reeds engulfs the cajoling green singing of approaching noon.

      Hurry past the brake-pedaled tar and apartment-size metro domes too late for champagne ticketrons and whole meals in the Mall.

      Hurry past my aging in the quick-stepping hallway of young stares and fantasies of barmaid afternoons.

      Hurry past her eyes of open longing and grace; step into another lonely thought and cry for the reeling hours of odorous, lovely Summer grass and cry loud amidst the towering genius and cry loud within the swirling black and gray subconscious until morning glaring, cold calls, Hurry past.

      THE ANCIENT SUNDAY WINDS

      She left me; she left me alone to laugh uncomfortably in Winter’s Tuesday ice, to stand away from him, to stand away from him.

      She walked uneasily, unwanted by the wanted in the hollow halls of empty future and labor laid her weak and labor laid her weak in meadow’s family woe.

      The bitter wine in leaping family car, the bitter wine in leaping family car wooed the lonely dinner hour and vanished her desire magically before the impotent storm.

      The redness of the dusk, the redness of her hair bobbled along the noonday bobbled along the noonday darkness of dawn.

      The radio singing memories of how she mike and iked her way in a caramel corn of malls enlisted me along the hiway network enlisted me along the hiway network of confields, ditch flowers and wedding bells.

      My wobbling step towards the wooden door foretold the lonely saga, foretold the lonely saga that bitterness eventually determined true--we’d never again share the home we knew; we’d never again share the home we knew.

      And

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