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

EJR ©