Quietly Shaken

by BobColewater

Posted to Poetry on 2001-11-16 02:32:00

Quietly Shaken

A many stars and rivers and young dying hearts of women burning,
throwing shoulders and breast into the lap of weepy cities eyes,
closing their lights and empty motel beds sprawled out in dirty jeans
shed the drunken and the deer even look lonely and slower
that the hunt’ll take our old mothers heart way.
O’ can we cry even louder as all life is gone, smoking in gasoline
stations and village greens!
O’ can we have a lot less rumbling of the funeral snare and
the decapitation of cousins!
O’ can night be even darker and the day even the same in my sad
blue eyes!

A million words to say and sell and not a dime to turn fame
into a nobodies laughing maniacal face and booze and
perhaps a car crash and an after life of all thing taken for granted
tumbling
further
every now
an so often,
down,
the cold iron blue,
spiral
staircase.

At the bottom an empty pool,
like the muddy fare banks where fish learn to
breathe the cool breath of oxygen,
like the orange lily and cobalt cosmos fare bed where
horses tow old hooves and sow old bones out from histories long
forgotten conurbations, out from ruble, and out from volcanic ash and war, and catastrophe, out from time and tears and blistering hands
of human evolution ever so striving, our tired feet lose thumbs.

And there I’ll be climbing a ladder,
wearing my grandfather’s wintry wool bowlers hat and a pair a old glasses, climbing a ladder, climbing a ladder,
with the pigs all gutted out for supper and the chicken meat
and eggs smoke in the pantry, as the chimney stump billows out the
pungent smell of holiday and feast.

As the cigarette burns slower than night, slower and slower than the
Deer,
the smoke speaks broken
angelic.