by Poetry

I have no song to sing
no tune rises from hard lips
as no pattern emerges
in the dance of this weak flesh
as no pattern emerged
from weaker bones in the wind

I have no song to sing
busy myself with proof
with evidence
in the digging of prisons
in the excavations of our bones
in the study of our wings

I have no song to sing
I shiver in the winter
I am too weak to fly south
I consume the weaker things
to survive the frozen rivers
to survive the snow

I have no song to sing
knowing that songs last forever
almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
beating silently at the door
of eternity

I have no song to sing
yet I have witnessed the singers die
leap from heavenly scaffolds
blind into the dark waters
with its promises of fresh life
their tongues swelling
their feathers turned against them
their jaws tear open with the applause
of lidless eyes

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modern poetry

La Fleur est Belle

the flower fought growth
I don’t know if you knew that
reluctant to let some mother enter it’s body
terrified of god taking Root amongst the leaves
turned its face from the sun
swore to photosynthesise in the dark


Terrifying, how much poetry   one can find, if you look      in the right graves.  Ezra show me nightmares needed to understand the beauty of poetry / the soul of verse and I will dream them;under northern clouds, I will dream the rare beauty of a clear night sky...


there are those, I discovered late, who were not born
loathing their bodies
whose faces grew from their souls, & were not stamped
upon a skull with little care

A Cheap Black Rosary

when I wasn’t looking for a teacher
she arrived
with her casual blasphemies
wearing the crucifix between her breasts –
cheap, plywood, & with her sweat
the black dye trickled