Saturday, November 22, 2008

Cold Autumn Morning


Cold southern autumn. Broken like the branches on the ground, defeated like the dying leaves. Lazy.  I cannot write today.  I've tried hard.  Better to let it rest, I think.  The chilliness is settling into what passes for my soul.  

2 comments:

  1. A Dead Priestess Speaks


    " ... then They may read the pattern


    though you may not,
    I, being dead"

    with expelled breath
    I rime a straight-line of oaks

    watch the young and the fools
    sing selfish songs;

    this refrain will not be New.

    Ice-crystals snake
    and twist up the black branch,
    your overdressed arms and a refusal;

    thorns of sun spike the evergreens
    but they can't warm you
    there is no resurrected Jesus to come and rescue.

    I ply your threads
    I play with the thoughts in your head

    knit them with spindled fingers
    and crush the jumping flea between my teeth.

    Pull open your stupid eyes

    your flowers will evaporate
    your sex
    the worms degenerate,

    they said I was Good
    but I am not.

    Carefully, I jerk the knot
    let go
    and jerk it again

    sing a round
    dance a circle
    strangle, strangle
    strangle
    the frail, seasonal Roses.


    after H.D.



    A small token of my appreciation for allowing me to read your blog.

    ReplyDelete
  2. That's too beautiful. How can I write anything after that?

    ReplyDelete