How many times -
Did we crumble under the divinity
of a wagging finger crossed
twice, as if creation got found out and
now sheepishly sought,
the forgiving (and forgiven) innocence
of a schoolboy’s childish folly.
How many times –
Did we smile as he hid behind skirts
and issues, attributing this bashfulness
to a virginal pathos, one that we in
Reason’s gloomy subterfuge
should cradle as first bud in spring or
last dash of snow. So he is
nursed, o infant joy, blessed
by our cowardice to compound
Eternity in never-land.
How many times –
Did the rod of invention strike foul to spare
this Happy child? No love runs
Thick as his tears, no music sings
Sweet as his tantrums. To his moods
we cling, bouldering the precipice
though blisters fester
And primordial veins, traitors to their inheritance,
scream sermons pleading
That we let go.
How many more times -
Will we turn the other cheek, so old wounds
don’t bruise? Like ostriches we place
our heads in holes, not, to escape
Death, but to silence out
the screeching decibel of fear.
What have we nursed in this rock-a-bye
but a dormant wind, now gentle in its caress,
but when next it blows,
upturns the cradle?
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2 comments:
not bad, you deserve space on page 73 as well.
i was thinking about it, what you said is true. everything is grey. maybe its time for a change. but you know how i hate overtly narcissistic and firebrand styles. maybe i'll do one experimental sylvia-plathy one, no lack of mentors there, hahaha.
be prepared to stick your head in the oven.
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