The Pilgrimage: Part 6 / Phillip Neal Tippin
Is there something wounding and wasting
An inclusion denied while I lick the festering
With tight grip held close? Shaking, Cowering,
I plead for healing of the face’s pallor, fever, weeping
But stretch not forth the shriveled hand to the Tender of grass and flower.
Walking, rather than speak,
Let the Poet read to me.
Do we ride to write to
Tie the time to something
As to ascend and descend
a decent plot finalizing the finish first
Only to reread, retread, retrace?
In contrition and humility
De-age my heart by the years
It is the bidding plain
Not the ancient stand
That marks the way
Of prairie lands which
Shelter the young
Grant elders a place
Bury the same,
The gifted running still
Both wild and tame.
Delight in an alternating scene
First in thought and then poesy.
To live at limb’ed climes.
Kindly point me the way to morning
“Aye, it is just through yonder sleep.”