April 22, 2015

#NaPoWriMo 2015 no.22

'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


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