Walt Whitman
I
I wonder if he was a Blue Rider,
destined to write while
watching the pink sky
in the surrounding silence.
II
I used to think he was God,
that he sprinkled
divine inspiration over us
so that we could see
perfection gleaming
across the grasses,
but I have come to realize
perfection does not exist.
This world, bogged down by
expectation and hate
prays to hear
freedom’s soft pipe
and see the eagle’s
milky white head and
charcoal feathers
gliding with glee
in morning’s light.
III
I am beginning to realize
I like to be common.
IV
Tell me, do you walk along
the dirty forest path, among
the thistles and prickly pines?
Do you sit along whispering river
and listen to her command the world
to do its daily tasks?
And do you feel the same wonder I do
while you watch beauty blossom?
V
I remember the morning
where I woke in the oak grove
and told God that I belong
to this world.
Oh, how my life is glorious now,
filled with constant laughter
while I dance in the wind,
carelessly, wildly,
filled with a madness
to give this world
my gratitude.
Bethesda Foundation
May is here, and once again
I bask in the sunlight with
the white lilies who rest
in the shallow fountain waters.
I watch them hug and wrap
their flimsy arms around one another.
A frog deeply croaks; he wishes
to sing a rousing melody.
The robins and squirrels flitter
and scatter away, but I listen, for
there is something beautifully moving
in the ugliest of sounds. The
dragonflies sip from the
Bethesda Fountain spout while
the frog serenades the park. Like
I said, there is something wonderfully
inspiring in the ugliest of sounds, so
I think I will get up now and walk home.
And I will be singing my low notes
of gratitude the entire way.
Good Again
All night I tread
an ocean of doubt,
barely keep my head
above the crests as
I fight grief’s strong,
thrashing current.
I wake early, run down
to the shore and listen
the breakers rough voice;
I jump in the surf and
feel the cleansing water
wash the grime
off my skin.
I dance in the waves and
splash around and laugh
when they crash into me;
Oh, how I feel fresh
and good again.
Adam Sarlan is an English major at Elms College in Chicopee, Massachusetts. His poems and essays have appeared in Cape Cod Times and Wilderness House Literary Review. He lives in Massachusetts.
