Poetry Corner

Every once in a while I just feel like posting some of my old poetry here on Whooshup, just for the fun of it. Last time I did, we got some return poetry, which was nice. I wrote this maybe two or three years ago.

When we trump the night.

That we should trump our given hands,
or strut and shunt our bones around,
when every tree and shrub remands
our justice to the frozen ground,

or grab the gladness we denied,
or false remake the words we lied.
Begone the mist! Away the veil,
that masks the many ways we failed!

Beyond the dormant, raised by straps,
that bind us to the stage above -
this escalator, ripped and gapped,
we solemnize, then quickly shove

to get beyond, to raise to heaven,
to greet and 'brace the law of seven.
The law of seven guarantees
a fitful state that we may sieze
(A fitful state, all crumped with light,
that lullabies the cruel night).


For when we get the eyeless gaze
and mystify our greasy bounds,
wrapped up in dusk's uneasy haze,
we faintly hear organic sounds

of stove-pipe dreams and treble sighs,
that grip our bones and tear our guise,
until that smoky, lurid night
enfolds our soul, our heart, our might.

What daemon halts us, calls our bluff,
and wheedles out an apish trust,
which all our inspirations hush,
and camouflages faith with lust?

To get beyond, to haul and push,
we back out sense, and clip the bush.
The bush that rises from the ashes,
frozen by our pearl white sashes
(Sashes earned in turning ground
to make the woodwork come around).