A poem by Deming P. Holleran


for Joan, at the threshold…



You will cross a river, the first metaphor

each day, and you will think how many sources

feed the waters, and how many more

will join them from the lovely hills; how some

trickle, others gush, and many gather force

within the slopes before they stream –

like words from poets’ pens.


You will climb the dusty road to the old

dilapidated house and writers’ barn, its doors
flung open in embrace, and all the milling faces

will be new. You may think yourself a child

at the aquarium, beguiled by all the shapes

and curious ways of fishes, and ache because

your wish is to be one of them.


You will mimic how they glide through words

in effortless suspension, while a see-through wall

still hems you off, till one soft morning while reading

your new poem to someone on the lawn, you’ll hear

a camera’s shutter click, and looking up you’ll cast

a self-effacing poet’s smile toward the tourist van below,

and know that you belong.






One thought on “A poem by Deming P. Holleran

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s