Greet the days -
greet the moon,
gather the stars.. .
Man is not at one with himself -
collars the infidel ways of his
race under pressure domes of widening silence.
I scan the horizon barely cognizant
of the metallic bits that pierce
the night's crown - no
jewelled orb stabs this queen's spectre.
I am running and lost. . . ever slow
to breech this reasoning.
Honeysuckle mist with armfuls
of orange lilies with scent stronger
than the carriage needed in their gathering.
Place the constellations upon their heads,
the colour so transcends.
And then there are the bludgeoned
stars fallen into the eyes of
my farmhouse scene.
The sphinx moth that darns the night
with her acrobatics escapes the wreath
of troubled moon that places about
her proboscised head.
Let her stone the night in peace,
feel palpitations on her ocean breast.
The darting of stone cracks in fissures
along the causeway to the stonehouse
is certain and sure.
A definite mood projects
the starling tunnels,
forlorn now with limpid darkness,
crushed lavender from the pews
of thoughtful night.
There are armfuls of crushed bats
in the passageway to my heart,
each reeking with squeals
to alarm the most frightened princess.
Only one has stained the pass key
and I must find her.
A toad abides the thoughtful recess
broken under the wall.
He is a good toad and mourns
the night creaking from the river bed.
A monster dragon to the insects
making a living near the light -
a source of amused contempt to lepidoptrists
squeezing the eye's circle,
pressing her to release her giddy charms.
At morning, skeletal remains
shall stain the blighted chain (mood collector, toad, moth)
but, for now, only the night buzzes with alarm,
cracking her secrets with each tiny monster
hurled at light's intrusion into dark.
Perchance I shall narrow
down the divide, position alarms,
remind myself I am inured to the
mood & scent that mans this cosmic bandwagon.
I hold up flowers to remind me
light escapes through jelly
and that rare LUMINESCENCE exists only
in lost bat chambers
buried deep near the recesses
of the snake.
The cry of havoc,
all those armfuls of collapsed lilies
breaking under the toil of enforced handshakes
leaves me like a broken lamp.
I have no more shades to patch
the plinths or barricade my heart.
I have left my love on bended knee
in a land I choose to forget.
39, 40, 41
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