As in the Days of Noah
Hearts of men have grown cold. Self-loves sow a
Bitterroot of hate, malice, neglect...lust
Just as it was in the days of Noah.
Evil is good. Good is evil: show a
Perversion of life, morals, truth, love...trust.
The Son of Man shall return. Halloa!
Churches compromising the Truth blow a
Trumpet of apostasy, lies, sin...rust.
Just as it was in the days of Noah.
Unheard cries of unborn babes ; though a
Killed elk gets “Amazing Grace”, wake...Unjust!
The Son of Man shall return. Halloa!
God has been rejected. Self-gods throw a
Propagandised blanket, deceit, a...crust.
Just as it was in the days of Noah.
Still, there’s hope. Focus in the Word. Know a
Closed door nears for salvation...judgement...just.
Just as it was in the days of Noah.
The Son of Man shall return. Halloa!
4.17.2021©deborah burch
Villanelle
*Halloa (Hal-lo-a): a very loud exclamation; shout, to draw or get one’s attention.
Categories:
bitterroot, sin, world,
Form: Villanelle
You find old poems in the attic
in a box with the Remington Rand
you wrote them on in the Sixties
before computers were born.
They were published then in little
magazines like Bitterroot, the one
put out by Menke Katz, who loved
poetry by anyone from anywhere
who gave everything to write it.
What to do now with these poems
still breathing on paper but
scarred by erasures, smudges
and yellowed by time.
You could send them out
to a website where they might
appear until the site disappears
for reasons that take over
the editor's life.
Or you could put them back in
the box with the Remington Rand
and use a Sharpie to write
a note on the box that says
"Don’t throw this box out.
A heart ticks in here.”
Donal Mahoney
Categories:
bitterroot, poetry,
Form: Blank verse
At first sight, her dark,
innocent beauty captivated
the spirited young redhead.
They lived, loved, breathed
through eight births
and one death, baby Loretta.
Spine stiffened, she watched
her love lowered six feet
into the bitterroot soil,
her thickened body numb,
her mind in time warp.
She tasted gritty ashes,
unable to crush the stone
lodged within her breast.
Children clung to her skirts
like baby opossums fastened
to their mother's skin.
Categories:
bitterroot, death, grief, loss,
Form: Free verse
It had been some thirty years,
Back when I was young and free—
Before I lost all those fears
And left to see what I could see.
But time can make you humble
As you turn into a coot—
And come back where you stumble
Along that windin’ Bitterroot.
Our house’s like a tumbleweed
That the night wind somehow saves—
Frail and old and gone to seed,
Near all the family’s graves.
So I’ve followed this river
That they named the Bitterroot—
Once taker, now a giver
And an old bitter man to boot.
I’ve come back to find those dreams
That cowboys often now lose—
Along rivers, lakes and streams
And in saloons and cards and booze.
But seems some feller once said
That you can’t go home again—
At leastways till you’re done dead
And they ship you where you begin.
So now I’m headin’ on out
And I may go on a toot—
But now I know what life’s about
Back there on the Bitterroot.
Categories:
bitterroot, angst, cowboy-western, introspection, loss,
Form: Cowboy Poetry