Ever since I left you
the sky has been too narrow
and the light too heavy
and I inhabit the flatlands
like an exile, dreaming of
the Blood of Christ mountains
and mesquite.
The scent of silver sage
is the perfume you wore
the day you seduced me
as I wandered your streets
with my soul still echoing
from canyon walls,
and the hush hadn’t yet left me.
And the flute players—
Peruvian, you said—
sent up aching hymns
like smoke from a holy fire,
curling through my ribs
and loosening something
I hadn’t known was too tight.
Outside your chapel stood
a bush robed with rosaries—
garlands of pearl and plastic,
turquoise, wood, and glass,
whispering in the wind
like the prayers of strangers
I suddenly understood.
Inside, the hush was deeper,
diffusing the golden light
that illuminated
your impossible staircase
spiraling upward without anchor,
floating like belief
in the absence of proof.
I’ve lived as an exile
ever since I left your arms —
under flat songless skies
where nothing echoes.
But I still long for your embrace,
and there will always be
a hole in my heart
the shape of Santa Fe.
When Joe was young he had tonsilitis
In grade school he developed bronchitis
Later, elbow bursitis
And Colitis, Neuritis
Now that Joe’s old ~ he aches with arthritis
Little wonder Joe’s gender-conflicted
It could easily have been predicted
Sick of sports injuries
Joe made some inquiries
Plays dolls injury-free ~ he enlisted
Fé
Na vida e nos negócios
hoje e sempre
plante a fé
colha a esperança
A fé é uma arvore,
de dois troncos que crescem juntos;
num dá esperança
noutro dá progresso.
Plante a fé
Progrida sempre
faça hoje e sempre;
sempre, um pouco
e muito a mais.
What would I do if there were only one of me
and not this raucous house on sky high stilts
shouting Fe Fi Fo Fum
rooster proud and peacock pitchy
like Baba Yaga, with her chicken legs
but many more mice,
and they are all writing this poem
from inside a giants eye?
What if this was my last brew, last blow,
last blathering?
What if this was my last poem,
unfinished, tragically abandoned
because of some unforeseen poxy palsy
that splits my cranium open
letting all the air out?
Would I be content, or bent backwards forever?
No not content, not content at all, no indeed not.
What good would high stilts do me then
and how many blind mice
must be beheaded in order to gag
a never ending last breath?
I think I smell some blood in a still chewing cud.
What if this were the only poem in the world
tattered, incomprehensible, and soiled as it is,
why then, I would be just one, only one,
and that would not do - not do at all
or perhaps…
“On The Atchison Topeka And The Santa Fe”
This song is rolling round in my brain today
The Modernaires or Pied Pipers
Which group were the blighters
That made us sing along in a hap hap happy way
The rocky desert was searing red,
And the sky was lapis lazuli
When thundering hooves and swirling dust
Brought grimy, grim men fast riding by.
Their looks and their mien were vulturine
With dark eyes that were as hard as stone.
‘Twas easy to see it was risky
To be riding this bleak land alone.
I held my peace and stayed in my cave
Hidden beneath the Mogollon Rim.
Three months and a day, I hid away
Until my trail was colder than snow.
I saddled my horse and lit a shuck,
Riding by night for old Santa Fe.
No man of the gun, I hated to run.
What else could I do with no alibi?
I rode the horse that carried the gold
Of the late robbers who shot my son.
death in the classrooms
nine students and one teacher
Death blithe attitude
5/18/2018
https://abcnews.go.com/US/active-shooter-incident-santa-fe-high-school-texas/story?id=55258606
Drowning Dreams
School-Shootings
heard sounds of children
singing under the golden
colorful rainbow
snap sounds of bullets flying
prayed that they all found cover
terrified to death
approached the open window
there was no one there
shells shattering nightmares haunt
strangling tight around my throat
Copyright © Eve Roper 4/5/2018
We're only 12 weeks into 2018, and there have already been 17 school shootings where someone was hurt or killed. That averages out to 1.4 shootings a week.
https://www.cnn.com/2018/03/02/us/school-shootings-2018-list-trnd/index.html
Stance like the rock,graced
with rigidity and pride,
Indifferent Moist: Faith.
Faith is a substance of Proof,
Actions hidden by hearts rule.
Innate fluid flowing in the vein,
Traversing the heart,fueling the rein.
Health of dying hope.
Faith is that strong stampede rope,
Attracting with force,unseen promises.
Inversing worry,deleting Vices.
The joy in mocking rages of waves,
Halting deceit,rekindling fire of grace.
For so long had it been talked off:
All soul were once or twice lost.
In the switch of time came faith to explore,
That he should have to himself many stores.
Hearts tiptoe-ing,to see what future holds!
Say to mountain,
Hence from hither to tither:
Faith is the bearer.
18:01:13:21:13
“On The Atchison Topeka And The Santa Fe”
This song is rolling round in my brain today
Was it the Modernaires or Pied Pipers
Which group were the blighters
That made us sing along in a hap hap happy way
It is the hovering time,
moments made to bear defining.
Someone should declare when it is night;
the dear white ghosts slip down the corridors,
wordless, in and out of rooms
as if the walls did not exist— and commerce
is a strange and other-world imagining
fading quite away, just after eight o'clock.
Sound is sacrilege, gesture frames the hour.
And from the morgue below, the cart is bound
for 722; there is no one to weep.
There was a prayer a little while ago:
"You know, of course, dear lord,
I have the promise of my son...
that he won't let me die alone up here...
and in the dark."
~
Note: A few months before my father died, he expressed the fear
that he would "die alone, and in the dark." And it has always
haunted me that he did, indeed, have to do that. We, his children
were not there.
heartless and you can forgive
blind eyes and you can see
deaf and you can hear
mute and you can speak
a bully and you fear
no legs and you can walk
no hands and you can feel
christian upbringing and you don't beleive
educated and you can't read
skilled and you don't work
bold and you are ashamed
a mother and you are childless
taught and you don't know
loved and you can't love
born and you....
walks of lie-fe
It all came to an end last Sunday in Santa Fe.
The love of my life was violently taken away.
A mugger shot my wife even though she gave him her purse.
She was rushed to the hospital but things got even worse.
The doctors couldn't save her even though they tried.
While she was on the operating table, she died.
She was carrying my baby and that makes it more sad.
I'm no longer a husband and I will not be a dad.
Because of that bastard, two lives have came to an end.
My wife wasn't just my lover, she was also my best friend.
Now that she's gone, my future doesn't look very bright.
When the cops find that man, I hope they shoot him on sight.
She died even though I went to the Chapel to pray.
My life became worthless last Sunday in Santa Fe.
(This is a fictional poem.)
Always after the train leaves the depot do I arrive, at this stop!?
Realizing that I should have gotten on; the story of my life....
A constant and recurring theme these dreams ~
About a man who's existence is as a movie script within
An episode of the twilight zones, a leaf spinning in the wind
Upon a puppets string and I don't know but, it sometimes seems so....
The old adage that we are authors of our own fate; whom can say?!
Simplicity would seem fine amid this world if one could find
The answers to it all within a crystal ball; but no fortune cookies
Prophecies in astrology for those like me; you see....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
....“The Santa Fe” *
Auto-da-fé
There's no mis-leadin any sane of mind
to think a witch is any other kind
than one who'll lead you to your fall
and never bat an eye at all
nor care about one argument you find;
there's no good witch, unless she's burnin' fast
and leavin to here-after; in the past!
and if you think ones' spell is good
you've never fully understood,
tis from the dark she calls her spells to cast!
Her way is vile--she's got the evil eye,
and never doubt, if needs be, she can fly;
she'll lead you down the primrose path
before she lets you know her wrath;
by then the harm's been done, and you will die
Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum
I smell the
fried sausages
bacon and eggs
fried bread, toast,
mushrooms and
tomatoes.
Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum
Ismell the
Steak and kidney
pie, loads of potatoes
veggies galore and
buckets full of gravy
Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum
I smell the
Aftermath of beans
on toast, covered in
melted cheese, where
do I start the more I
eat the more I fart
Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum
I smell the
Dessert, jelly and
custard, spotted
dick to, jam rolly
polly and a chunk
of plum pie, all on
one plate piled up
high.
Now pass me a human
I need a tooth pick
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