May 6, 2016

ear seed maple tree dandy lion fallen blossom poem :

photo by Edward Rinaldi 

are dragons 
egg to ash 
follow again 
each fiery crash  
with death 
and rise 

they're observers 
storied angled 
angels wearing 
they seek 
demons to clarify 
what the inherent 
good in mankind
might really be ...

this part of the poem segues 
into ancient astronaut theor-ism

throw light 
day glow disco 
grow night 
nautilus go
curl into 
a fetal swim 
then crawl  
to a run 
for milk ...

no more 
than a stone's 
throw away 
from either 
heaven or hell 
at any given 
moment while 
here singing
the choruses ...

"boom shacka 
boom shacka 
lacka lacka 
boom shacka 
lacka boom" 

we slow down 
catch our breath 
cast our nets again 
tech Sun begins to set 
pious one 
doesn't want 
anyone to learn 
new music 

are we someone's figurines 
we only careen 
with so much play 
before breaking down 
spleen specimens needed 
are documented with right blood type 
and stored, cataloged away in
the room upstairs 
a tight apothecary 

we need worm food 
in the cafeteria
how else can we fight 
sloth and gluttony wars 
when they're engaging 
all around us 
Christmas light bearers 
say things to us 
cheerful cadences like ...

"you'll already have been given 
bad raps by this point in the poem" 

tomb worship 
tone warship 
dead whales keep washing up 
on beaches 
sonography is
quick smith-ing 
iron in mammal blood 

the microwave farms 
on the artificial islands 
deep in the oceans 
outside shipping lanes 
are only another box 
Pandora was left with 
tasked impossible(s) 
she whispers stage elf left 
off to fade black beyond certain ... 

"men write these things 
you know, myths and such 
there is no wonder that 
my lighting is bad here"

(and now back from our sponsors, but first, for the record 
I find Pandora to be very hot, mythological-ly) 

set the scene narration 
we're between 
cloning old politicians 
and nano-bot-ic intelligent 
take-over of cellular 
sedan pleasure 
and medicine delivery 
we're readying 
with leaps beyond 
tele-screen screaming 
"end the poem" 
to the projectionist 
in the back, who is muttering 
"I'm fixing another drink" ...

the film slips 
starts then  
stutters motion 
captured wet clay 
to oven 
a sinking feeling 
about ability 
to be like dragons 
thirst a rise above 
our own humanity 
the soundtrack 
is ritual adherence 
cues and noted 
with time 
and an 
interpretative artistry 
how heavy a heart 
can be

despite prayers 
most churches 
have us conformed 
plasticity twisting 
in paternal vibe 
attached to price variances 
lances and bargained fours 
kneading and wanting meaning 
what is beyond three dimensions 
leavened and unleavened into bread 

this is the PS part of the poem

I once sent in enough 
cold sugar disguised 
as consumer training 
manual cereal box-tops 
to exchange for x-ray glasses 
sold in the back 
of my comic books  
they didn't work 
of course 
but whenever 
I wore them 
I could smell the lies 
people would spout 
here and there 
all the places  
they cling to 
desperate to know 
they're not 
the lowest 
hanging fruit 
this lifetime ...

EJR © 


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    2. What a good poem of an explanation as to why flowers might be better off, never picked.