Where do your nightmares come from?
Peace
Sweet is the air when the lights flow across the serpent-time sky, when my mother’s womb is finally quietened and she no longer demands her children return to her laborwaters, her ocean.
My sighs in the morning, like dandelion seeds on summer zephyrs, call my evangelist’s heart awake to the good news, good news that blows the horns of the morning soft into the dawn-gate.
The air. My breath. Gifts that lie on the thin threads. The thin threads that reach. The thin threads that reach to my ear and whisper life and joy and wonder, my catharthsis, my apotheosis, when all darkness has fled from the marching sun.
Filed under Creative writing, Poetry
London
When Rome came north into the gray, the seat of the West was lost for awhile in the mist where time counts days by crows. I fear that old bridge where they live, crossing the midland waters gathered for the sea.
The indigenous all tried to beat back the Italian menace, who left eventually. But their middens had a life of its own. It took a while, a long while. And one day the sun never set on the West, and the city by the river had its fingers curled about the whole of history.
When I think about it I don’t know whether to be proud or ashamed. I am a child of this city, distantly related, like the son of one of its favorite whores who got a mind of her own and decided she didn’t need a pimp.
The crows caw the hour on the bridge over the northman-road. The Queen’s time piece calls for prayers. But I am speechless
Filed under Creative writing, Poetry