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|12 Indicted, More, Close to Home. to Come
|Posted by RC James - 07-13-18 16:06 - 1 comments
Clearly, above the hubub today,
the hounds’ bays, piercing,
sustained, drown out all other
sounds, as if a dome
of fogged silence shuts out
all but the fierce barks, yelps,
howls and growling.
The hounds’ owner sits,
calmly, on a ridge, knowing
precisely where the search leads.
He has adopted the measured,
maintaining the disciplined process
of discovery, arrest, and conviction.
He pauses for a solemn look
into the disarray of the valley,
then nudges his charger’s reins
back to from where he came,
the mountain where eagles live;
he’ll consult with a hermit there,
who has forsaken all comforts
for the headstrong life of refusal.
The horseman will simply sit
to a cup of the hermit’s special blend,
and as he leaves they’ll exchange nods,
nothing more; enough is enough.
Read 132 times - last comment by greenwich
|Questions on the Way Over
|Posted by RC James - 07-13-18 16:03 - 1 comments
An otherworldly white rose appears full bloom
on the mantle to soothe our harsh tomorrows.
Where does the lithe spirit we abandoned loom?
Alive, alive in memory, not in sorrow.
The dread apparitions that claim you nightly,
will they too, come with us on our final run,
then in drear spite, haunt us anew frightfully,
and dwell in this dream’s remainder like a sun?
Will the fear of what we’ve come to understand,
proud in lop-top-sided triumph, embrace us?
A thousand turbulent miles from land lies more land,
here, the dolphins hypnotize with arcing trust.
The ocean of our past informs us, and gleams;
beneath tormented skies, prophets’ poems speak
while silent seamsters sew spirit to our dreams.
We can’t forget what we’ve lost for what we seek.
Can we summon the extent of what we know,
how we know it, and make when conform to now?
There is nothing more sound than a falcon’s show,
only a dove’s return with what love might allow.
Read 116 times - last comment by Larry