A stab in the dark 13
13
Weird tools lend themselves
to lost cures and high lore,
play in waves of blue dreams
where saxophones of old walk,
murmur nonsense at midnight,
tease the old man's mislaid directions
with baffled images of infinity.
Words flock at the foothills
with rolling water's entry
into pools of longing.
But he is lost.
Dark aspirations.
Attempting another context,
he gives birth to a breath.
The water has broken.
Lost in waves of slow extinction,
shaped by the agony of old mothers,
the old man cares not for the gloom
that fills his eyes,
that points him to the shore.
He walks not in today's peace,
nor beneath a wicker basket sun,
rolling across feathery fields,
hen-shaped and slowly dying
before his eyes can say goodbye.
It is a mother of pearl morning,
– beneath an empty turtle shell –
smelling of wet decay and salt.
He mounts the sea with pain,
the serpent grinds its sand,
a stray bird shrieks.
Day after driven day
he wrings his futile fire,
all that lost middle men may scorn
in lost calls for consideration.
Midnight moon is passing,
perpetuated by the ticking
of a old boy's retreating heart.
All is contained in this manmade morning
where he stands by a window,
cleansing nebulous night with grief.
Teased by dark end's tell tale perusal
he falls windward into wet grass,
the viridian is a dark horse.
The bellowing roar of water
breaks the seaweed summer,
discards vacant shells and dead fish.
Never before did a promise of continuance
roll morning into steeples and cider,
with only seahorse to plead with.
An old man lost in views:
There never was nothing more.
He is close to you.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1165 times
Written on 2011-09-20 at 19:37
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
night soul woman |
