And the beat goes on...
15
There is a feline sorcerer
summoning all birds at dawn
to roll into the palm of his hand.
He wants more rain,
he wants more grass.
The second death came that dawn,
gulls and crows called out
just before rain and wind
left the night to prowl elsewhere.
Early birches, charged and soaked
at the edge of more rain,
tell their own story,
unfurling green flags to a distant war
of mongrels and squatters.
On distant banks the poor
are squeezed
far into the burning dessert
where parched scorpions
bleed beneath a dying crescent.
Migratory whispers
around lakes, in trees and high above,
herald thunder with beady eyes.
The shaman's shoes
has gone ahead
with the brooding light.
The passing of dreams
roll over wet grass.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1057 times
Written on 2011-09-21 at 16:49
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A stab in the dark 15
15
There is a feline sorcerer
summoning all birds at dawn
to roll into the palm of his hand.
He wants more rain,
he wants more grass.
The second death came that dawn,
gulls and crows called out
just before rain and wind
left the night to prowl elsewhere.
Early birches, charged and soaked
at the edge of more rain,
tell their own story,
unfurling green flags to a distant war
of mongrels and squatters.
On distant banks the poor
are squeezed
far into the burning dessert
where parched scorpions
bleed beneath a dying crescent.
Migratory whispers
around lakes, in trees and high above,
herald thunder with beady eyes.
The shaman's shoes
has gone ahead
with the brooding light.
The passing of dreams
roll over wet grass.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1057 times
Written on 2011-09-21 at 16:49
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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