A Stab in the Dark 16

"So this is the last part of my feverish and perhaps nightmarish poem about the old man and so much else. one trick pony asked me to give a clue to my way of writing and I guess my use of metaphors. I cannot. Perhaps suffice to say it is images I see and feel, images that at times are very scary due to the scary world we live in. Add to that the obsession to make the lines sound like music and run of into the the reader effortlessly even though the meaning might be obscure. But be sure I never try be obscure for any reason in the process when I write, but sometimes the sound dresses the images in a way I can't resist."


"I am the first soil,
the breeding ground
of all conscious effort
tolling in open windows."

Wine flows red on walls
and sirens interfere
with dead streets walking;
thugs feast on low visibility.

Money makes bombs
that burn children.
Fingers that itch with power
run like fire through the hair.

Captured giants roll down scorched hills,
break into villages with no cheers.
Old man dreams of a world of free banking
where there is no need for fat children.

Free fall teenage suicide,
daredevils that old scribes forgot
while copying the myths,
fall into a booming darkness
rising over Gilgamesh mountain.

A river of tears
runs through that valley
where cedar and cannabis
once spiced the air,
where the olive was a deity
long before the flood.

A poor shepherd boy strapped
belted death to his day.
His much loved goat turned missile
for the sake of a different tale
where Ur no longer echoes.

Shamash! Ki! Inanna!
Sumerian ghosts
still sing in shadows
where villages bleed today,
all in an old man's sleep.



Poetry by Bob
Read 539 times
Written on 2015-12-14 at 20:27

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