Sunday, March 2, 2014

Sixty Nine . . .

by Stormcat

I learned as a child not to cry . . .  "men don't cry"
Nearly half a century of tears remained locked inside.
A dike-blocked sea raging against all those lowlands
(a desert ripe for assassination)

Breach releases a flood of unrequited grief and pain
A salty flood . . . to poison already lifeless expanse?
Stench of endless brackish sludge over-washing
barren fields of stagnant dreams

Lost are my brothers that balance. Strength of earth,
fluidity of Intelligence, airiness of Friendship, fire of
Poetry. Lost in the ash of anguish, weight of loneliness,
dogmatic rigidity, weak apathy!

Yet once stillness sets, the stench motivates.
 The floods that destroy become the floods that feed,
stagnation nourishes the recapitulation of evolution,
peaceful, beautiful, teeming life . . .
                        brothers formed anew . . .
                                         A tearwater marsh is born!

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