Of Time & Loss
To A Young Seer — Whittaker Belled — A Sightseer’s Poem
A Poem To the Young Soul Inside; As I Once Were — As We All Once Were; This Is Another Poem In The Becoming Act We All Go Thro’
©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms
Stare — and stare, that she did without hesitations
No need for the precarious reservation;
The stars were aligned, just for a still moment
Before the great turning of the rotary flux —
Born — forebore will the living must,
Of a Moon to an emblazoned sphere.
To see it all whilst the birthing was done —
Stare to me, and I can only offer a glimpse of what is to be,
Stare to me, as the illuminated orange of skin evolves diaphanous,
To the night, alighted by
The fire you crouch,
Just after the morrow day.
You unearthly babe, you.
Adopted by all saints, wisen up your blood —
I hear you cry, bewildered to be young as the contest can be, I hear you, no longer struggling to be at night —
O; Cry — you there — my jaded babe, by all life’s whoring — by all life’s thriving bustles, that fails you asleep on the eve of much to thieve.
Wick the bud, and watch it enflame itself, after the years have parted, and the sea remains watching you, waiting to seize —
You’ll grow from the wretched sight of birth, pilgrim on the rump state of the body, as it goes on to grow without your remark;
You’ll be watching on, and over afar, till the dream has all been wrestled from your clear sight.
As all men will weep you into their imposing height;
The will to live, remaining alive, somehow — somehow —
Still, thereafter,
Tidying the heart a stupor till another day excites unmoving;
How — how?
Could I beget it to be — remarking to you, that you’ve begun!
The whim of the day — the gay sun branching
over the daughtering thereof, in which you have grown; growing still.
Chiseled in the warring abodes — it is how such a surfacing
a creature came to be, never so far from without;
Coming in clover to the struggle of nature;
I have witnessed gay skies — gray skies, all the things have fallen in between, like her then, watched them all pass, awaiting them to slip away
from me. I let it to-be — struggling not by my thin hope.
Child caught by nigh, oh mine, oh my;
She began to see, and that frightened me to my core —
Grizzling to that pretty voice becoming ever dismal by the foreknowledge of the scorn of the naturalness battled to now.
Natural — O; query to the Natural to the mark if it doesn’t encompass all that passes under its golden ballot?
And so be it passes, all encompassed in that fervent broadside; she goes!
She would’ve been baptized if it wasn’t for all that — encircling the filthy fifth, spindling the crying shame that belates me much to my mistress of a song —
Without the burden of leaving that apart.
I weep the lord’s song, chanting the Shepherd boy's remarks, all for the merciful seed, that is all done with the pushing of death upon
The broken tooth of a youth flurrying thereout.
O; Giddy upon St. John, is the close remark,
smoking for all of that, is the image I depress;
Seer — yer — seer — yer, make her that seer now.
They’re always so brave, on the battling mile before certitude tells — out there, wincing without,
Thro’ the suddenness of striking death, and the sadness it brings.
So send me fire by the hillock emblazoning the fair night — Whimpering solace to the self, whilst the world ceases in rapture,
Humdinger faced the hand, as the tears make temper of the ceaseless sound — Know if I was there, I would’ve caressed your cares.
Grapple now, as is the needed must, as the warring comes further from the shore, into the homeward land;
Rippling down, as is the unthwarted must-go— Asking too much, more than I ought,
The season is coming to chapel the aching old; vested beyond, as you are young, my dear seer once, you were, young.
Confidence, never possess it; whilst on high by the hubris mile, are you twice as likely to redoubt yourself in the direst of mistakes.
To change that tidal wave of unfairness — It must be, young seer, I know you saw it once;
Without it, you won’t be questioning still — Heed the fear that overcomes you like the surges that bring,
The confidence man illy to forming shape — What folly will he provide by the brassiness of his volume?
Fool; Am I — Fool; ’Tis he too, where do we begin —
Stroking no found shore for cold pity; O, you precious of things —
My young seer — once, I had you to begin —
You hardly hear beauty out of me; Tho’ you see the eyes without much word for kindness — Believing much, that most lives are wasted anyhow, How is the daring to be, if I am caught, in the meeting I began;
All to once felt winds, a season passed, in the hundredth tally of fortnights since.
Why all this, my belated dear? Why a further ‘motion, if life is so seized by death, without contest;
Dare it, dare it as you once did, and maybe the gazing lightness on the face may steady the shaking bosom, in the dark, for you to be;
In times descending the most — a contrast you cannot be without, a Promise!
The thickening tassel, the burdening hassle —
Siege the fine grass, to leave her
Without, either/or,
The worldly grief!
A Promise, in case you ever needed me; I did the same for you, as you could do for me now.
You bring it all to march back into the fermenting heart of mine,
A seasonal tingling comes too cold through the nights.
And we are at outbreak thereof;
These marches of gold, that dime the dozens drowse,
Comes widened too much, yet the young will be young,
As little as that is, in the damnation of clouds all around
Till the light is choked on out,
And it shapes you to grow;
Peeling thro’ — coming out, the young will be seared alive,
By the mere sight that is around.
And that shakes me to recoil,
For you, I have done this for;
My little seer you — my friend.
My wonder you!
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