December 8, 2012

poem 448 of a poem a day for 2012

painting by Larry Carlson ©

in an Edgar Cayce wind

the scoured future
is quick soft
lead pencils
to pages turning
anomalous wheels
handed ordinal directions
we cross arms in trees
a leafless mathematics
meant for the eyes
and nose
we brave the cold
and dark
of Winter nearing

the tongued erode
scents our sense
of community
as we hold
the valley rain
keeping the snow
at bay
we scratch walls
with our names
tying humanity
to whatever
safe harbor
secures our moorings
through tomorrow morning

the belly clouds
kite the ground
in damp embrace
and another day
races memory to fire
as we huddle
through things
out of our control
America, is outside
the glass
a bio-metric scan
a pointed gun
a nation of foxholes
with a neon
bookie conscience
selling us
paper dimensions

so each night
we pray for
plums and pillage
a ride out
against the storm
of modernity
smooth pieces
of grace
pocket hope
into the empty
where there
was once gold
our palms
are held out
above our heads
full of stars
pulling on
the Dawn


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