the down-
side of innocence
all its moments belong to time,
a fiction tefloned against 'endure',
yet staple to heart and mind

time whose thorns
come stealthed in the fine-print of marginalia,

time whose elan faulters,
craters to plod-derrivatives of light speed,
whose breathless awes
collapse into sighs and weariness

who could have guessed,
believed the mist-born loss

"the moon smiles,
then laughs, then yawns" -
innocence has no such carousel,
only flesh to engage the more,
dreams and wounds to farm, and sand,
alas, disguised as many things beneathing each step

in to be's distances
need and wont crowd a trellised-mirror,
gate-gauntlet creatured
with that of the grape-raisin-wine of things rose,
things serpent

we enter in

inocence tarries without,
becomes a forlorn child, look-
ing back when we sense time
whispering us through
from marrow to eyes
glazed from the gathering vault
of hourglass

Being a fan of Bratsche-speak, I am getting more and more comfortable with your word creation. As with anything new or unique there is an adjustment phase while one tries to decide if there is something legible within the concoction. Where it is hard to find new things to say about time or innocence, crafting these two within your odd and bewitching word schemes, I must say, your observations and conclusions sound fresh.

On a first few readings I felt echoes of Wordsworth's intimation ode, oddly enough, with a more secular bent. And I felt your hourglass more a stark reality than a celebration of things remembered. More tragic, as if time were identified as as a thing beyond our reality, but also a thing which we are subjects of, rather than subject to. Kind of like Mann's Magic Mountain time, if you are familiar with that. Anyway, I like this one.

NPO -

Thank you for the time you took to notice and reply to the poem, and that the spending of these was not without some enjoyment on your part.

Do not know Mann's Magic Mountain/time - sounds like I should attempt to change that. Indeed, I wish my circumstances of availability were much greater than they are. There are no bookstores within 150 miles of here (or further, to find the sorts of books I should and would avail me of had I the opportunity and means; nor are there musical or poetry groups {band & Lit classes are as close as it gets!} at the Univercity of Virginia's College at Wise - am on a series of dry-rocks around here, but hell, its home). Do you know where I could find books of current poetry/poetic criticism at a 'reasonable price' - been years since I have bought any new books of any kind.

About "Bratsche-speak"... I picked-up a saying in Vietnam, 'Xin Loi' - roughly means 'sorry about that'. I still use this saying when the situation arrises. I do not use the phrase ever in a mean-spirited sense, just as an 'it is what it is' response. This phrase is about as much validation I can offer about the way my 'poems' insinuate themselves into existence with various degrees of participation on my part. 'Dawn by jackhammer' might be a good way to express how the 'poems' just sorta show-up, use what I have to add, then bee-on to the next flower or untowards of spark-spray or dividendi by nerve-strum. Poetry is strange stuff. I still find myself shifting between loving the damn stuff, and wishing that I had never heard of it.

To me, time is the greatest fiction that swims through the human wherewithal, and is thus very easy to 'story-up'. I think that whatever physics/metaphysics we may exercise about this business of time is all third-rate in comparison to the various spiritual and religious aspects which play into the cranky madness of clock and calendar. Time will tell, eh? For each of us.

Innocence is much more poignant to deal with. Whenever I see or hear children playing, I have to move my mind quickly, else it saddens me to soul's depth.

Am about to run out of computer time (have to use the town library) and there are others waiting.

Best to you and yours. Do not worry about making any reply to this - never have that much time to post/respond on PFray.

Carpe Verve.

Doug Mills/'Bratsche'