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| 'The Magic Circle', John William Waterhouse 1886 |
look, it's soup at the change of seasons again
what, I stammered incredulously, I didn't quite
understand all you said, could you repeat yourself please,
we do this all the time, though not as often at the behest
of someone besides ourselves, are we to revere our elders
and eat our young...?
words have meanings jumbled with intentions
roodles noodles baby vegetables thrown in...
loonie bird dodo and mynah
clamor crow tuck winged wet
this day is a cold Spring one
and things are a messy shiver get
I wait for the impervious, imperceptible
lime green budding love of leaves...
I often miss this
moment breaking free
sounded like broken glass
here, Winter's carcass
is calendrical cock rash
a car crash
a circular saying
thats stop you
in your tracks
with mortality...
this part dead world
turns faces into places
makes me take stock
of my life
and the locks on
my cask barrel potencies
my Shangri-La(s)
my pain(s)
my hell(s)
my heaven(s) too
of what of those
I could tell
to you
without first
you too
committing my sins
by buying into
my indulgences
the industrial world begs
mountains, rivers and forests
please feed me...
my clay fired ovens
hunger combustion
my iron mouths
bellow out mortar
and shell games
my sense of modernity
leaves me empty
on the outside...
am I what stirs
ideas to fruition
forbidden groves
treasure troves
kept from masses
am I an eye
an articulate and limbless idea
a lump of coal
old trees hoping
to be diamonds someday
maybe my humanity
is only meant
to catch glimpses
of time rusted full
eyes closed
to how thirsty
are my insides
we still feast gather for ritual
as the wheel turns
to think freely
to notice sunlight
clinging more
at the end
of a day, where
we might say...
look, it's soup
at the change
of seasons again
EJR ©
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