Monday, April 30, 2012

For the X in Sam's phone

A compass always points north
magnetic drag on the tiny arrow
and it's all up with freedom
There's only one way to go.
That seems to be how it works
with you too.
Up your arrow goes
and like a hound enslaved
to his sniffing nose
you are off
to wag your tail
around another painted hydrant.
Red is such a trashy colour.
Maybe that's your magnetism
working away.
Cheap tin, and plastic,
good enough to fool you.
So here's to gold, and here's to north
and to good riddance.
Follow your nose wherever it goes
I don't have to put up with your
shhh....

Snowfall


The earth is frozen
the crops die
the people starve.
It is the first winter.
There is no history for this
no warning of foliage change
no gradual autumn.
This is grief, sudden and vicious.
This is rage, indescribable.

Who has stolen the treasure,
has breached the sacred stronghold?
What is the daughter
but the mother's own form
made again to be shaped into
her own image?
Who then has stolen her self?
Demeter rages for justice.
The earth is emptied.

The womb is bereft
The cradle abandoned
each of these losses
Demeter has borne
for the filling of another space,
the orchard of her lilting laugh
the little rivers overflowed with her songs.

This theft bears no new fruit.
The seed is fallen deep into the earth
and has not bloomed again.
No salve for the soul
that has been stretched into two skins
that has been severed
into two selves.
Demeter is at once alone
and lonely.

The people starve
The crops die
The earth is frozen.
Six red seeds fall like blood,
are planted in the daughter's womb.
Death grows in her bones.
The self will not return.
A separate soul arrives from Hell.
Winter is born.

Friday, April 27, 2012

Future

You exist
in early mornings
when I am too awake
to fall back into dreaming
a weight behind my eyes
an anxiety in my bones.
I cannot sit still
I cannot go back to sleep.

besafebesafebesafe
I would build an iron box around you
a place lined with lead
with strong locks through thick latches

and then sink you into the sea.

The night is young and hungry
I am starved for sleep.
We prowl together
slouching, careless.
The hunt is short
the game up.

So is the sun.

You exist in early mornings
teeth and claws and kissing
the back of my ears.
You gnaw over numbness
and scar the skin.
You are more hungry
than the night. More starved
than me. More scared.

I cannot make you safe.

I am sorry. 

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Invocation

Call out the young men
summon the strong guards.
Strip them of their duties
Relieve them of their post.
They will shout in protest
This is their land, and the land of their fathers
their fathers before them,
and their father's fathers.
Back it goes but before fathers there was the earth
loved, not lusted for, growing, not groaning.

Gather up the weapons.
They reek of rust
and old blood.
The bite of blunt blade is shallow
but poison
to eat all the living flesh.
Burn the reddened blade
the shamed branches that grew green
and have soaked up death
instead of cool waters.

Take the bitter ashes
and dig a deep hole
a pit not a grave
a mouth of broken teeth.
Pour the grey muck, the dust, the filth
like an offering
and pray that it is swallowed
not spewed hatefully as it spread
by man's hand
in young men's blood.

Let the hand that swung the sword
be given seed to sow.
Let the archer loose his bow
and bend toward the earth.
Commanders of young men retire, rest.
Take up the plow, drive only the ox
Young men, build homes
not barricades
and march in cadence
for the summer dances and harvest games.

The earth was young
and is now old.
Care gently for the seasons
and the turning tides
Treasure them up in your heart
and store them away like grain
to ripen and enrich your dreams.
Young men become fathers
who love the land
who cause it to grow.