Sunday, November 9, 2014

The Air's Account

From The Granary gathering, another attempt at poetry...

Hair thin, eyes dim, skin slack-
constant reminders of time’s insistent metate
Night, day, night, day, and thus
are the bodies of loved ones thrown from howling birth into a furnace of death.
Our constant fever, white-hot;
Much the same when as young life and those whose
feelings are the potency of self are given
to a foreign Christ tiger
who was once trained by mystics and A New Father
and soon dragged asunder by a frightened caste
(Though authority would remain theirs for a few years, only).
Thus the intervening years have served
for all intents
as placemats at authority's table
for their ever more powerful progenitors.
Meanwhile, seeming alone here on this planet, we grow older by the day breathing what air we are allowed.

Our throats are made raw by coughing
and brows moistened by that fever, that oven, and time’s grinder-
we see very little manna from heaven, nor much rain from on high in these days
with God so distant.
(Oh, dear St. Francis, this thirst is slaked only by shallow graves in the womb of our earth!)
Hunger for peace grows every couple of generations
with disgust of rage and battle
as marketing maxims and shredding machines
drive green generations into self-promotional frenzies;
we need much more than groveling prayers and such cathartic supplication-
From whence do these plagues arrive and
To where will we all go?
All things have gone, and so will they go, until
we all dream dreams more full.

So just that is done in a way as genuine as any heavenly ideal
because that is the secret,
and that is the answer.
It is conveyed and practiced complete
with all questions answered and corpses buried,
feet and hands separated to keep them from haunting the living
or perhaps returning for much more
(please know- all secrets told me, I keep close).
And having overflown the steely dews of early mornings,
and having seen the sun rise shedding no real light
to naught but a few pallid, home-grown tomatoes
and high bench grass for ghostly elk,
we hereby freshen with inspiration and communal, deep breaths,
questing deep into night and all other, often far distant lights.

Through a long voyage past some risen Lord
and his disciples,
having brightened the garments of those deprived of
these long emotions
and in compassion for those alone with what is their own,
we cross.
And, so, beneath rivers,
Beyond hills,
Watchful deserts,
Forgotten mountains-
It is more than just mutual cosmos.
With this soul passing from Damocles’ sword,
habitacíon del silencio, estimado riberas , orillas de cobre, cobrado-
Aqui dentro, en el mar de lo nuestro y lo que sera,
Even the air we breathe will rise
To give account of its use and benefit

with perfect proof of faith, dreams and dread.

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