Come the morning, we will shed
The tears of infants, painted red.
Mother's love can save the child
But not the mother from her death.
Soon the child will grow up hated,
then the voices soon abated,
when he finds wickedness in pleasure
And in blood, he finds a laugh
He is lost, they say, abandoned
Bastard child who fathers misfortune
He is crooked in his stature
Out of his jaw leaps a lie
Yet he carries out the sentence
Righteous man endures the torture
Of this world without a Father
Where the love of God shall die
Fear the son, lest he be joyous
In your twisted castrato chorus
Separating joy from voices
So that you can only cry
You will burn and starve and vomit
And your terror will be voiceless
Unless you embrace the hatred
And become as loved as I
Categories:
amplexus, anger,
Form: Rhyme
An alabaster jar
Amongst the discard
Embedded in the mud.
The fisherman
Well trained in the ancient art of picary
Catches a halibut
In the morn
It is the noon. The river is all but gone.
Dry as a bone. A bona fide state for a river under the baking sun.
The harlequin fish now ARE all dead.
The cavities once called a river
Now await the rain for life to return in its core.
Still the alabaster jar
Among the discard- waiting to be fished out.
Next to the last alive pair of toads in amplexus.
Oh the river
The supreme life giver. Calls for Anuket!
Times are desperate.
The sun is hot. The rain won’t fall.
Amethyst stones on its cracked banks
Glitter and reflect its sad facade.
The fisherman sits and grieves for the dry river
His eyes transfixed in the limestone.
Alas his halibut is still fresh
In the bucket. He reaches out and fishes out the alabaster jar.
Categories:
amplexus, allegory, analogy, art, fishing,
Form: Rhyme