May 9, 2012

poem 153 of a poem a day for 2012

Acorns a-plenty
(oak trees used to rise into Heaven here in America)

when cutting trees
the scorn comes sooner
rather than later here
and what eats me so much
to want to be loved near as I can
to a heart that I never get to be
more than the hung flowered vine
that the Sun can just barely see
in the reach of leaves at
the end of the strings
pulled in the blind directional
magnets of the sky

this is a song of how now belongs
to this most bloody of tides
and how we always ride
to where the wounds
are always going to be
where the poppets
are puppets made of dug knees
where the sirens are calling
to own part of why we’re here

I write in those tides
all my names I've
carved in pitched wood
because death is a ship
and has always sailed
round this world
to gag-consume
like a giant mouth
wanting us all
trying to find succulence
before it can flourish
or at least fall as rain or seeds
that find ways ashore to bleed
fins into limbs into wings

I might sing those names
already demonized
with the lies
that history
often re-tells
this is what sells
this is news
this is the wash
rinse and repeat cycle
of life without Love
this is Hell

so again the songs
come in the waves
where I’ve lost my way
to most everything as I
just to try and be me
but it seems I’ve become
part of the dark
giant mouth
waiting to eat  
the crawling
roots of beginnings
that don’t ever need
an end to see
blind Love
is never
bought or sold
it is always young
and never gets old


1 comment:

  1. Down and dirty in the tides. Particulary love the third and fourth stanzas.