Posts Tagged ‘man’

Something gray and infectious

has fallen into human throats.

 

Caught by veins,

those catcher’s mitts, those tiny roots,

 

and carried around

like dandruff.

 

Sir, your eyes are bloodshot!

Sir, you’re retching like a hurricane!

 

Sir! The sun’s been stopped

in the sky!

 

The clouds are hoarding

its light!

 

What a meteoric fall

man’s dug himself into.

 

Whether he’ll live to see

if the sun scorches through

 

those bandages of clouds is another thing.

For now,

 

only the willow’s tendrils move-

the trunk, a headstone.

My golden house is adorned with flames,

it licks itself with them, wistfully cleaning

blemishes which are not there.

Fires rise and crackle.

The whole cacophony, the whole sound

of these flames could timid a lion.

Even though I among these precious metals-

orange brighter than any morning,

red deeper and more passionate than a heartbeat

or a kiss, I find myself

looking out at the worlds between the flames.

How minuscule they are-

a yellow thumb, a dark brown eye,

a fleck of glowing white,

pinpricks…

I’m afraid I know nothing else

than shades of fire

and my own face.

Indeed, there are others glowing,

held in comfort of white embers

and enthused by the ceaseless dancing of flames,

but I find myself not with vigor of flame,

but with emptiness, that same emptiness

as the black reaching

between those worlds and specks of light, unifying us,

and separating us

all the same.

At the Table of Dry Bones

Posted: October 22, 2013 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

At the table carved from driftwood

sits the skeleton Man.

Pale light flickers in his eyes sockets

a sort of manic ghost of a flame.

The time I met him he sat there,

grinning, and raised a tarnished chalice.

The bread on the table stank of blood

and the wine poured out from under his robe, staining it crimson.

Alone at the table,

except for the loaves of bread

and the smell of blood and smoke,

he stayed. Never had I seen a more pitiful Man.