21 August 2019

Postcard 177

Old time moves like a stone wheel
and is plastered in chipped beauty
Old time makes short work of plans and youth

Old time's ever open maw grinds on relentless
Look about you: see the teeth upon
everything you see. See the mighty tongue
wrapped around each being

Old time trucks no mark nor measurement
Has no count as ring of tree
Look ahead at gullet's void, always steady
always distant, ever ready to be the present
for man, for beast, for stone for star

For in old time's thick hands
fingers steady, nimble as rust
is every fed thing

Old time is grace itself: smooth
when slow, and smooth at speed

Old time is your constant friend
Time is on your honest side
Old time won't let you hide or obfuscate

Old time's mouth
is too full of us to lie


In the beggining we were in our mothers
We needed no myths to buttress the womb
All was steady steadty, swell recede and seady steady
We needed no words for want, content
Light changed all that.

Father is a symbol; mother is the world
Are there steps until steps?
Are there hands until hands?
There are no lines until clipped words
No succor but love in arms,
like center pulling gravity

In the end we must struggle
to recall continuoulsy that myth
at best, is fluid analogy
A swinging bridge between ridged edifice
built careless on stomped earth

Without, as with distant fathers --
violence and idolotry,
cold verbs applied to objects ruthless
The sad result of strife
toward nought but being free

But there are steps unto steps
there is hold into held. There is
ever -- beginning unto end
And that is -- even just
myth of fluid soul

08 August 2019

Postcard 175

This summer day
the new moon leans in heavily
I hope your dark magic
carries weight

We are reaping
each moment's mortality
fine as a blade
of dry grass

Whole fields of fine cuts
and green horizons browning
in these hottest days

Water seems to
leap into the air
sticky and red-rubbed
I bury my face in you:
your sweat and mine

Are we making love?

Edged by rough coppice
the blank moon hides
the gristly shapes
of cut and cull

Even in these burning days,
in dark respite, love
and children are somehow made
Magic is a desperate act

& aren't these
desperate summer days?