March 24, 2012

poem 95 of a poem a day for 2012



the kingdom of crimson Flora  


she's sews 
serpentine 
needle begins
with our hearts 
behind glass  

embroiders 
the clouds 
just above 
a ghost-reach 
of grass
fog-shadows 
the mist 
in damp 
hollow places 
here at the edge 
of spill
here at the emptying 
of our moans
here at the bloomed
fields of silences
here at the edge 
of every horizon
we disappear
seasons in

no compass is needed
to thrive without
mechanical clocks
whereas a tick might be 
just another moment 
clicked into a geared void
She holds all the pieces 
of sane in Her pockets
and thimble fills each one
and leaves them on 
Her big window sill 
that watches the turns 
of every wheel 
She can find

like telescoping 
the night time 
in every soul 
all the things 
that catch
 Her senses 
are tined to us
though more than likely 
She smelled Her way 
here blind and thus

Her hands 
are always wet 
as She becomes 
the carve-till of oars 
into every part 
of our mined will
that we've sold
to wear dreams
and the milk
for magic beans
She can bend  
the light to
because 
She knows
everyone has 
dark spotted hope
in their sunshine
  
I just want 
to give monsters
their faces 
and pour them 
Love to stay
in their graces
She whispers
in a song
of flowers
and a poem

She never minds
snaking our slags 
to get past the past 
and into the pure fine 
of each grotesque part 
of our beauty 
She can find
because She knows
the root-bellies 
of our seeds
never know 
the Sun
except 
by bleeding
home again
and crawling sin
with what vines
us new skin
when She sings
for us to get in
gravity and ride


EJR (c)

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