Saturday, January 7, 2023


The words that once were free at ease
recline beneath a willow tree
wishing so to climb, climb, climb,
to escape the evil on the ground. 

That evil is a devil thing that stabs
and stabs, stabs, stabs again,
till nought but “mush” remains to speak
of love and peace and harmony. 

And that “mush” sends up an ardent plea
to grow, grow, grow and grow some more,
to knock at last on heaven’s door
and ask, and ask, why, why, why, why. 

For now mere silence filters down
and words listen, listen more,
but nothing penetrates the shell
that survival put in place. 

But they know, of course, they know
because heaven speaks out loud
when the channel free of dirt and grime
picked up from that filthy ground. 

But how to make the channel free
for more than minutes in a day
and words ponder, ponder, ponder more,
until claimed by exhaustive sleep. 

You’ll see them there beneath the tree
but don’t disturb their reverie
because they will have to start again
from beginning till the end. 

How long it’s been, how long will be,
but I can’t tell you till I know
they’ve up and walked away
to regain their rightful place. 

And their rightful place a page of course
or three or four or more and more and more!

No comments:

Post a Comment