Offertory

guilt
wraps around
this blood-crusted mind, hidden
behind Sunday Smiles
and stained-glass windows

the cost of salvation
becomes
faded green,
spills
into the collection bag,

and all shall be forgiven.

Dusk of Man

flailing
beneath modernization‘s impenetrable boot,
individuality
gets smeared across the pavement,
trickles down the drain,
to rot
in this culture’s sterile bowels.

angelic voices
grow utterly still.

when we bend our knees,
crusading thoughts turn robotic;
so we shall fill the ranks
of this undead army,

and words will sing no more.

herd-mentality-FAULTS-OF-THE-HUMAN-MIND____________________________
photo credits: richard-chen.com

Sleep is overrated…

It has been a long, long while since I posted anything but poetry on this blog. I am already past my bedtime (my boss will love my grumpy face tomorrow morning), but I am happy I didn’t nod off – because I found a gem. Most of you know I rarely re-blog anything – but this is just too brilliant not to share.

Who stole all the color?

Enjoy.

This Town

“It will be long ere the marshes resume,
I will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.”
— Robert Frost, Now Close The Windows

This town, a ghost
Haunting; absent shadows
They lie, uncovered
And weigh heavy on
Catatonia;
Mankind’s woven tomb
Absent soil or mourners,
Absent loving words;
No flowers left to bloom ~
It will be long ere the marshes resume

This town, an echo
Driven into stone
By callused hearts,
As if it were flesh;
And mortar tears
Veil the cries of the Unheard,
Now frozen,
Bury words in darkest night;
Brand dreams of summer days absurd ~
I will be long ere the earliest bird

This town, a song
Of long forgotten days;
Of courage, worn away
By rain’s steady trick (trick?) trick-le;
Dancers’ feet now heavy, weighed with years of mud,
Ancient tunes, hollow; stripped and skinned,
Taunt drowning minds
With adjunct notes,
Leave consciousness thinned ~
So close the windows and not hear the wind

This town, a paradigm;
Indifference taped to every door,
Nailed to every soul that roams the streets.
The crosses we bear
Tower high above our heads,
Leave meaning absent word;
So we squint;
Cover eyes with shades of mirth,
Hold on to fraying dreams, now blurred ~
But (at day’s end) see all wind-stirred.

__________________________________________________________________
Samuel Peralta over at dVerse has us experimenting with the Glosa, a form of poetry of the late 14th century. It starts out with the Cabeza, four lines I borrowed from the marvellous Robert Frost, which provide the ending lines for the following four stanzas.  This is my contribution to Samuel’s great challenge.
Grab a drink and join us at the bar!

Modern Health Care(lessness)

promise bubbles
drift from eager tongues,
opalescent;

we stack
our shelves with discarded humans,
label them ‘dysfunctional’,
and turn our backs
on benevolence,
while the door sign
tells hypertrophic tales,
and money-stained hands
drive
the Sword of Damocles home.

Spill

one
faltering step
and individuality
escapes its confinement

the contents of her life
spilt
on pavement ~
a liquid, personal rainbow
for hungry eyes to judge

she hides
a sympathetic smile

and gathers up
her essence,
wetting
sterile ground.

___________________________
… based on the poem Escapade

Fleeting

as if you were there…

a stolen moment
poises
in the corner of the Valkyrie’s eye
while sacred wish
hides under her tongue;
dies
on her lips

as if you were there…

and
in a cold, neon world
you master
the art of invisibility

Worlds Apart

a bump
in this cobblestone road
turns determination
to despair

you
run for the hills,
evaporate in turbulence,
no longer allow yourself
to cast a shadow;

while i
stretch and yawn ~
and expect
the usual pace/face
with the morning paper.