The title tells all. The verbal fireworks.
The language game, the play of words.
Beyond the sounds and scenes are the nuances
Of living life, inventing it if necessary,
Like the opening of the vein and then,
And then, go through that bold ceremony
Of bleeding. And bleeding some more.
This is the way to write a novel.
This is the way to compose a poem.
This is the way to imprison the sense
And arrest the meaning the right hand
Sometimes takes for granted
Like autumnal evenings getting longer and longer
Like the days getting impatient and bored
Like the hours useless for creating a new universe
Or renewing the old one where vision is bright
Or the deed is warm and open-hearted,
Like the high winds making music and committing murder
In a winter storm unpredicted, sneaking like a thief
On a street down South towards borders and boundaries
For people going away and coming home
For a thousand thanksgiving
Or these magical moments of motion
Of the months of making do with so little
Until we have finally moved on
To that peak of calling it quits finally
From all the hurrying of paces just to wait
And wait for the opportune times
In order to play with light,
In order to play with the word that gives healing,
In order to marry the lines of sand
And the lines of earth,
The lines coming into circles squaring
With hard truths, useless lies,
And the need to survive
So the spirit moves and can move
So that the stirring of the spirit blends
With the changing colors of the lazy leaves.
The verbal fireworks,
The serious play of words
The play of serious words,
This recreating the world.
Aurelio S. Agcaoili
Nov. 28, 2004