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Two Poems April 23, 2009

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Civilization Anonymous, Mystical.
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I will be away this weekend starting tomorrow, so no blogging for me.  (At least I don’t expect to.)  So I will post these 2 poems I wrote yesterday and today.

What Does It Mean? To Be 45 And Thiking Fondly of Death?

The Hudson flows upstream at Noon,
As estuaries are wont.  I sit, enlunchhoured
having doffed shoes and socks, bare feet
on moist antful ground and sod.
A breeze blows northward: Enhancing
flow of water?  How wind and river
converse ain’t no never mind to me.

In this gastrointerregnum
wherein I have time to myself
I muse on my bare left foot
contemmplating the purple network
I can see through dermal layers.
Neither old, nor young, neither pup
nor sage, I ponder this body.

Not exactly happy, nor abject,
still I languish and long to moulder
in a comfortable cold grave, let
the warmth of my body dissipate
in self-same earth now cradling my feet
then to slough off cells and matter
to become carried off by the air.

Some would call this morbid.  Maybe.
How I dream of days collectively jobless
wherein each of us learns to feel our feet
and to connect with Work Divine and Grand.
We need to help this mode toward Death
as gracefully and speedily as possible.
Should there even be such chance afforded.

My yearning for the plain and valley of death
emerges from this anguished strait
jacketing me down to debt slave hoosegow,
a veal-fattening pen in a cubicle farm.
Save for this vital wind and earth respite
that allows my body to breath from feet
upward, I feel oh so sterile and dead to else.

I caress my pale, thin-veined foot,
feel its smoothness as well as veins
and yes, there is life here.  Of course there is.
Still, I crave a butterfly transformation.
Each of us stands on some phase of this path
whether egg, larva, caterpillar or incubation
into the gloried beauty we know lies within.

******

Doom Sonnet #1

Is it too late?  What sort of time do we
have?  Implosions of finance and weather
coalesce around us all.  Some won’t see
this Titanic we the blind sail, dither
themselves into a most-contented doom.
To breathe acceptance into disaster?
Could this be folly, as these crises loom,
sprout up and overtake this one faster,
that one slower?  But what choice do we have?
The source from which all our answers emerge–
It may not seem like much.  The merest salve,
as tsunamis nature and artifice converge.
I remember.  We’re in this together.
Even as all ’round us loses tether.

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