Monthly Archives: May 2013

Blazing Torches

It is a nebulous vision,
a scene viewed through an opaque window,
bleak faces with blazing torches
who hover at the edges of perception,
marching into the night in search
of one to persecute, one to save,
one to be a savior.

Her touch is a cut, leaving wounds
where once there was healing,
calculation and timing where once
there was love, yet, she takes
my breath with her when she leaves,
a slab on my chest to crush out life
as I am buried beneath her burden.

Her ghosts follow her into the night,
bleak faces with blazing torches.
It is a nebulous vision.

.

for the Sunday Whirl

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When a Poem Resembles the Hours of a Day, and the Drinks Which Mark Them

There is little movement in the early hours,
lifeblood flows slow like a trail of tree sap
on a northern pine. Coffee is the cure
for the morning which follows the restless night.

Midday brings a false energy, fueled by caffeine, sugar
and the rush of adrenaline fed ideas. The impossible
is contemplated, and often attempted, the pace furious,
the goal unclear but ahead. The tea is sweet and iced.

Sometime later, when the afternoon rays are brightest,
a sense of doubt steals momentum, decisions are
second guessed as the day is reviewed. Changes of
direction and a more traditional tea are considered.

Dusk and the dark which follows throw shadows
on a already murky path, the culmination of choices
leading to a congratulatory beer, celebratory champagne,
or dejection poured out with whiskey on the rocks.

.

.

for her Tuesday prompt Margo Roby asks us to ‘metaphor our poems’. She said nothing about using the world’s longest title.

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Last to Remember

He keeps the ancient vow,
a binding covenant with the sun.

He dances before the cave mouth —
broken symbols cradled in the crook
of one arm, a perpetual fist
on the other — circling the fire,
sending chants into space
with the rising smoke,
a constant drone of syllables
in a language unknown
to the listeners.

A tourist attraction shaman king,
descendant of proud warriors
and priests.

.

.

for the Sunday Whirl

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Fruit

We now consider
no fruit forbidden,
no knowledge sacred,
no secret worthy
of remaining hidden.
There is low hanging fruit,
accessible to all,
within easy reach,
but it is our glory,
and our downfall,
to always search
for that just beyond
our grasp.

.

for The Mag image prompt

Cassatt, Mary young-woman-picking-the-fruit-of-knowledge-1892

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Futile

The pulsing crowd of protestors
spit their messages at the feet
of power, demanding to count,
thinking they are heard.

A thousand thunderous voices,
lost in a soup of chaos
and indifference,
served with charm
in a red dish,

by window dressing politicians
and special interest frontmen
who pretend to care about
the petty petitions and causes,

when, in the end, their only
concern is votes, money
and perpetuating their own
power.

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