We've woven Samson's hair, into Emperor's clothes
From the tangled web, that enough of us chose
We try to find our way back, while the drawbridge is closed
As the portcullis crashes on the cry in our throat
If we could but match it, with sincerity's tear
We might fashion a shield, and a mantle to wear
But if we cling to the cloak of the silk that's been woven
By the dance of the golden hooves of the cloven
We'll be trampled under, that stampede of lies
In the gathering storm, as it darkens the skies
It won't echo and thunder, as our epitaph
But a death knell our legend, as history laughs
At the folly of thinking, "We're better than that."
Swept into the dustpan, or under the mat
Placed at the bottom, of a yellowing page
In some forgotten tome... of enlightenment's age
Footnote
I drink coffee
She kneels, barefoot.
I don’t speak.
She doesn’t rise
until I’ve finished.
I rest the cup on her back,
and kiss her toes
like they’re gospel.
© Arin M. Dey, 2024. All rights reserved. Do not repost or reuse without permission.
First published on @thecelestialsmut — read gently, touch respectfully.
When Adam was known as Clay Potter
He saw Eve was nude in the water
He went for a dip
Made one little slip
And that's how they got their first daughter!
If not in memory’s service,
do we still write the words
To leave the past unledgered
—and by token paid
(Dreamsleep: March, 2020)
The nature of being,
its whole and its parts
The nature of being,
its fits and its starts
The nature of being
the old and the new
The nature of being
—to me and to you
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)
A polite rain
joined me briefly
before heading uptrail
to leave me standing, alone,
in a suddenly steaming forest.
I wrote this on a hike in the Adriondacks to to Mt Marcy, the highest mountain in New York State. My Adirondack Guide indicated that Tahawus was the a first Nation (Iroquois ??) name for the mountain and it meant “cloud-splitter.” I decried that the mountain is now named "Mt. Marcy"after William L. Marcy, who as Governor of New York (1833-1839), authorized the geological survey that explored the area. I speculated that this is why there is so little poetry in our time.
However, a later Wikipedia search revealed that the name was likely never used by the aboriginal peoples of the area to refer to the mountain, and its meaning, may have no roots in any language.
As long as you write
There will be still memories
Leaking through our words
I amazed since you would be Orpheus
And play Apollo's lyre with so much skill
How rudimentary they tell the death of us
How conflicting the story of your frail will
Successful in Hades, empty handed
By character, Hades need not keep you then
Among flattery you are best left stranded
For love never moved you to die with a friend
Which was best than this tired end
And wrinkling of time that on us descend.
THE PASSING OF A FOOTNOTE
without foresight
or future concern
we cast our stones
into the waters of uncertainty
the river holds us certainly
epic ignorance
existence in spite
maleficent macrocosm
the truth lets you know
it's ok to let go
ghosts of the past
a friend found at last
we succumb to fears
being lost in the years
the pages of time
we think we headline
the history book
selections children wrote
the passing of a footnote
is there lost consequence?
or does this all make sense?
The music played between the bambo walls
My heart was dancing outside the ken
Of adult passion and woman ways,
Your body calls me back again ... I followed you
And all that of among the pile of coveting eyes
Was the conquest attributed to my plight
Dancing while my footsteps followed you
The rhythm changed your body pressed
Against the hunger of my loins
The fluid rose ... your breast caressed
The hesitance before my flight
And all through the remaing years of life
Your messages came with autmn flame
Leaves fluttering in the gulf between us
And the music like an eternal chorus
Of sea waves breaking on the heart
Opportunity lost in the sundering of the heart.
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