THE CROWS
Having paid that much a pound, I couldn't throw the meat out to the good of nothing
Reeking of excess life I bore it from the refrigerator
Through close humming hot of a summer's late afternoon
Where I place the stinking lump just beyond the StonehouseOn the field's thyme altar for the crows
High above me in great oaks they wait and watch with their sunfire eyes
In which my magination is mirrored,
On whose black wings with sparks of living rainbows I would soar-
A grateful mendicant at the Sabbath of these creature priestsOn whose black wings with sparks of living rainbows I would soar-
Whose nature, godlike, is to transform all putrefaction and death
Reality is the slap of the screen door behind me.
My offering was gone the next day.I hear the crows communing somewhere, way out there, as I write.
--AJA at FULL Wolf Moon
Hey, that was pretty darn good. I've noticed over the years that poetry seems to be your strongest muse.
ReplyDeleteJust the way my mind works, I guess. I get these brief flashes, you know, that come as pictures. I find I have not the patience to write long pieces. I have three or more stories in the works that I simply lost interest in finishing. One is rather far along. I know where it has to go, how it ends. It's the getting it down that beats me. Maybe one day...
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