Poetry
Photo by Thomas Schaefer on Unsplash
Ripe Grape
when sweetness was simple
fruit split easily
their light filled my mouth.
the world was
clear juice, spring air
round and right as a grape.
in july, the air bruised
compost steamed
rags soured.
flesh cooked on the pavement
and in the dirt
the word changed in my mouth.
Ripe
is a lesson pressed against my teeth
how language itself
begins to sweeten
and rot.
how the death of a wasp
swells the fig
drops to the earth
and nourishes the flies.
how cheese may blossom
with a slow lightning
its form figured
through infection.
how a wine
may be so lovely
because the grapes so
bitter.
so when the fish’s eye splits
I taste it anyway
this fruit
this world
tender, leaking
still sweet.
an Idyll for
the good old days
the good old days the good old days
there was only the radio our signals soft and warm
elvis and a rockabilly goat graze
beneath the televised war
napalm in the milk glass white, divine.
a shepherd sings a hymn
as the fields ignite.
we felt the heat remember the flame crave the fire.
****
the good old days
once I fell down a hill what a rush as
the road bit my knee open
the blood tasted metallic, sincere
the scar stayed
gray and faithful.
***
the good old days
when the screen glowed analog skin
when the living room held the world
and the world was burning.
oh, we loved our smoke.
called it innocence.
called it Sunday.
call it peace.
**
the good old days
when prayers were rationed
and color was law.
when the pasture was black and white,
and the lambs were quiet.
we felt the heat remember the flame crave the fire
with a sigh.
*
today hums neon
the air buzzes digital
as we scroll for a softer war
a prettier past
pixel burns bright as napalm
we lick its edge for warmth.
it’s a slow
burn to bless the past,
forget a fire.
and in the haze,
cradle its match
and call it
Light.
Flora&Fauna (3026)
HEAVY MACHINES ON OUR BACKS FINALLY WE SEE THE SUN
OUR BONES GREEN WE SMILE OF JADE
OF LIMBS SLICK WITH OILY WATER
HUNDRED BY HUNDRED WE MARCH ON THE SHORE
LEAVE OUR FLIPPERS AND HELMETS SCATTERED
AMONGST THE SANDS THE TREES THE HILLS
WE DANCE ON GRASS ON PETALS ON ANTS
AND GORGE RAW ON THE FEAST OF MEAT OF MAMMALIA OF MURDER
WITH BITS OF RED BETWEEN OUR GRINS AND
BLACK ON OUR FEET
O’ THANK YOU NATURE AND TIME, MOTHER AND FATHER! WE CRY
THESE TEARS GLOW ON WHAT GROUNDS US
WARM AND GREEN BLOODED WE ARE GLAD
TO BE BACK ON OUR LAND.