Light Footed

By Glenn Marchand

If a person could explain life in totality, one might dare to embark upon such a journey. Pieces and parcels, passions and karmas. 

And such a soothing exaggeration of sails, gods and goddesses, seas and souls. If a person could dispel all mysteries, one would suffer those discoveries. Whereto, science has enveloped shamanism, and religiosity is found linked to various energies

—some entering and changing temperaments. 

A type of presence is under investigation, wherefore, a person may advance, a person may withdraw. 

So great in soprano, kneading in tenor, so appealing to a person’s imagination, so steep in fantasy—fantast of spirit, honor in bravery, heart of beating trembles, inner earthquake, as it was meant for whispering. 

A mind to seaquakes those miles to redemption, in finding—it all begins again. 

Lord of each aching, purgatory of each revelation, such benediction, kindness of excellence, per three adventures, harvest came quicker. 

In mixing disciplines, so tremendous it must perish, a throbbing skeleton, an earnest sacrifice, a love one can’t compute. We might pause to utter Om: 

days inverted, nights somber, studying towards cessation. It becomes settling into humanhood, flowing with rhythms, becoming adjusted to jasper skies. 

If a person could explain, as in elucidate, one would speak slowly, as not to shock an audience. 

Heart of hertz those with trenches, terrible fright, gnawing hopes and dreams. 

And it was life to undress wisdom. Patience seems to unstitch impetuosity. A person walking around an impending wail, one might re-voice light and trespass provocative tomes. To bring life into itself, tacit and uneasy, finding solace in sandy regions, even a snippet of converse, either blessed or cursed. 

Torrents pour in. Damage is done. Offshoots are rendered. Each stoke of violin, each drumming revelation, to have died in cadence, alive to cheerfully perish twice and again. 

Love is a cellist. Another is a pianist. Again, another is a professor. And yet another is a psychiatrist. To find life hungering for definition, pleading for mercy, life having its outbursts. Speaking in melody; sweet vinegar; mystic gypsum—fever of calling water, even pretentious holiness, separating ourselves, each key robust with impatience. 

Love of a calling. Poet of christic suffering. To sense symphonic rage, orchestra of perdition, in figuring maestros are dying. 

Affectionate surrendering, if one could unveil Divinity; and running a risk those meters born thetic, a winning thesis, a compelling doctorate. A person becomes a patron of arts, or a scientist of cosmos, tender cosmology, rendered unable to define existence. 

One has pieces and parcels, pleasures and pains. One has prose, ‘ologies, poetry and cultures, treasured polemics, engendering philosophies, dear and steep religiosities.  

Glenn Marchand is a poet holding an MFA in Creative Writing from Mount Saint Mary’s University. Marchand is speaking to realities created by the human condition. In exploring scientific truths, Marchand employs observations. It is with pleasure that Marchand presents this prose poem. It was written with a focus on the heart and the mind.