Sorrow runs through roots
(of all directories), systemic
in extended sequences
resonanced with hollows
attuning the quasi, the emergent,
driving riving cycles: a
horn of spacetime blowing
itself into echoing voids;
geologic continental weathering
sequestering carbon dioxide,
phosphates offered blue-greens,
oxygen for sobs.
Gaea knows it, flinching
from the future fire, groaning
in frozen chronicles.
Sorrow
is always at the gates: in planned
farewells, sudden desertions,
the final slump of a giving-up.
Piteous wrongs
outlined in rue
wide-eyed stare in and
set their troubled store,
sleeplessly reiterating
by doors of morning.
All lives in time
despite brave roles
lonely, disappointed,
stillborn, pitifully short,
oppressed, bullied, abused
neglected, starved, tortured
persecuted, panicked,
despairing, suicidal -
a wishing line of sorrow strung
on the Mother.
Sorrow's promptings,
sorrows expressed:
the deepest waves
in fields of poppies
roll through all things.
The ox in his yoke
stops and steams.
Call us back: turn, turn,
compassion, turn again -
the rim of the cart is stuck with
printing pineapple-weed.
...............................................
Anima: Now, Gong. Will you be so kind as to ask Lunk will he allow that one or delete me again in the morning?
..
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
