A stab in the dark 14
14
There is no hidden agenda
the old man can count on,
no cheerful day, tap dancing
to fireflies and girls
on their way to the meat market.
Streets of silver
beg him to see the fracture.
Bones that melted for Paganini
reinvents the way he falls,
a soft surrender flowing
beneath a cold sun.
He carries tall trees
and the dying of the winds
to rest in grass.
Pale bones and summers
where once wooden flutes echoed
out of groins in silent laughter
talk to the descending sea.
Fierce is the fire that feeds
on false sainthood and salt,
on naked arms in cloth.
Watermills in stiff collar at high noon
move with gullibility.
Sureties are pale words on waves
rolling wet sand to the dry shore.
The cat's smile folds
under dark water dreams.
Wild to the obnoxious bone
he tells his tale to the crowd
with no hope of a here after,
not expecting anything more.
Stretched, corrupted and lost
at the brief disturbance of influx
he ploughs the earth in his own fashion
grieving for nothing but the end of days.
Going down with thunder,
with the fat fabric of clouds
in their wake of yesterday,
– with too much umbra –
he separates daybreak from wild water.
He will not die in dread or fear,
nor tolerate the coming of mean storms.
All is salt and fish in tears,
all is shape or seaweed.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1116 times
Written on 2011-09-20 at 21:02
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