When migrating birds gossip about war.
Visions of a feline sorcerer
calling all birds of the sullen hour
to break the glass of dreams
rolling into the palm of his hand,
could not have brought more rain
bursting upon the early grass.
The second death came that dawn,
grey gulls and crows that called
just before the precipitous rain
with winds of distant stars and the steppe
where night coyotes prowl.
Early birches charged and spooked
with the risen edge of rain and doors
and a morning with its own story
unfurls green flags to the distant war
of mongrels and squatters.
On riverless banks the poor a squeezed
far into the biased burning dessert
where parched solitary scorpions
of an unfaltering, brutal faith
bleed beneath a dying crescent.
These are the migratory whispers
amongst those that waits
around lakes, in trees or high above,
whilst all birds of the full year
heralds thunder with fresh tears.
On this grey gruelling morning
the shaman found that his shoes
had already gone with the brooding light
and the passing of mindless dreams
that rolled across the giving grass.
He had a tiny owl in his hand
just before the drummer boy
was heard playing from shrubs
on a naked garbage can
with his bare hands.
Poetry by Bob
Read 797 times
Written on 2006-08-01 at 13:55
Tags War Birds Shaman
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Morning rain
Visions of a feline sorcerer
calling all birds of the sullen hour
to break the glass of dreams
rolling into the palm of his hand,
could not have brought more rain
bursting upon the early grass.
The second death came that dawn,
grey gulls and crows that called
just before the precipitous rain
with winds of distant stars and the steppe
where night coyotes prowl.
Early birches charged and spooked
with the risen edge of rain and doors
and a morning with its own story
unfurls green flags to the distant war
of mongrels and squatters.
On riverless banks the poor a squeezed
far into the biased burning dessert
where parched solitary scorpions
of an unfaltering, brutal faith
bleed beneath a dying crescent.
These are the migratory whispers
amongst those that waits
around lakes, in trees or high above,
whilst all birds of the full year
heralds thunder with fresh tears.
On this grey gruelling morning
the shaman found that his shoes
had already gone with the brooding light
and the passing of mindless dreams
that rolled across the giving grass.
He had a tiny owl in his hand
just before the drummer boy
was heard playing from shrubs
on a naked garbage can
with his bare hands.
Poetry by Bob
Read 797 times
Written on 2006-08-01 at 13:55
Tags War Birds Shaman
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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