April 26, 2017

who was it ................. the push carts and peddlers pondered AKA war became commonplace mechanics adopted as origin language ................................. NaPoWriMo2017 #27

illustration by Josh Kirby ©


if a cacophonous hippopotamus 
found its way into your story 
would you have time 
for plausible deniability 
truth it seems, 
has never made it back 
in style or otherwise applied 
in these longing for old times 
in these new ages 
we are constantly visiting 
for answers, for destinations 
for poems wear, 
showing where we 
forgot how to ride ...

we have no reason to incline 
they said with bewilderment 
we're wanting to be Life in a poem 
moving about, antennae short waving it 
through thick and thin 
we find surprise variants rampant 
these days when joy wants a home 
to be a comforted view 
of what the soul and spirit 
knew to do to the body 
when it rebelled 
a bone cage 
breathy accordion  
hand organ 
again  

we goat skinned wine 
we held vigil parties 
late hour-ed eviscerates 
all we had once celebrated 
we denigrated with ideas  
of beauty we could put in reverse 
with an Annine Everson piñata 

we were at another 
precipice moment 
in our tenacious cling 
of stewardship to Earth 
when we noticed 
crone magic wombs 
were tending things unseen 
in a slow apocalypse symphony 

who among you can dismay 
so readily the perils children face 
today placemat pall bearing 
the wearing of our indulgences 
still we deny leaving a mess 
oh the blessings addressing 
what we owe in roe chains 
of command, lands of milk 
and honey don't come cheap 
you know, so we hand over 
our gold coins, cows 
scarlet letters  
and runner beans 
there are no giant vines 
here in this poem 
only treasuring 
the egg layers 
pursued by slayers 
of community trust 
and the collective mind 
you see, the scents 
behind the curtains 
are wizardly types plying 
politics, barters, trades and wares 
marionette-ing push carts 
and peddlers 
every sunrise 
trying to stave off 
the stain 
of dying time 
because at the end of this poem 
Lady Macbeth is left 
wandering the hallways 


EJR ©

No comments:

Post a Comment