Bang
target clay pigeon
hog steer squirrel rabbit pheasant
deer elk buffalo bear
soldier
boy
...
Mirror
(Bang)
It's fifty miles to the city
And fifty home again,
Around that pothole on Depot Road
Into the arms of the lane.
Old George has left his hay down.
A day or two since mowing.
Pink shadow of the Grange Hall,
Blind in sun's last glowing.
The cows are gathered to the barn,
Tail switching at the gate,
Udders glossy ripe with milk.
Supper'll have to wait.
Take down the bucket and strainer,
Rite of the ending day.
Bury the sound of city streets,
In the sweet whisper of hay.
Bow your head to the great brown side,
A choir in the gentle refrain:
Fifty...miles... to the...city,
Fifty miles to the lane.
The pure stream rumbles out, surely sacred
With magical properties evoking sighs.
Ancient secrets of this place become naked.
Suspicions, therefore, do quickly arise.
Will fertility come to its demise,
Or will seeds of ideas, thus, be blended
For evoking unique spiritual highs
In pure streams of light where the rumble ended?
On we go to the Valley of Kings belated;
Here, Neolithic farmers brought the seeds to rise.
They penetrated the landscape's celebrated
Cultivated grounds of buckwheat and rye
Pinnacles do reflect through holes so high.
Those ancestors here believed blessed.
When the time came for solstice sunrise
Their chambers then danced illuminated.
But December twenty-first makes sunrise,
Bright light awakening above their heads.
No doubt, strangers do cheerfully advise
Of the power in agriculture's bed.
Rocks therein were by hands carefully laid
With their messages for many generations' eyes.
Is change better for days so sacred?
A light piercing through my heart reveals flight
In pure soul streams.
I've had these words
On the tips of my fingers
For as long as I can remember
You've had those bright eyes
In those pictures you'd take
Ever since you were young
And when the record comes on
Starts playing our favorite song
We can dance in your parents living room
Collapse into each others arms
And just fade away
I've had these words
Running through my veins
Ever since I first had that pain
You've had those bright eyes
Since I can recall
Ever since you were young
So long Bobby Jean
Save a dance for me
WINTER SOLSTICE AT NEW GRANGE
Sun seems to have gone away -
Light bonfires! Pray she will return!
Our calls to her rise with the burn:
Winter solstice the darkest day.
Our hearts at New Grange will fill:
Trees evergreen are cut for scent;
Dancing and singing with energy pent;
Warding off this dark day’s chill.
Mark the path scant ray has found -
Only in this, the shortest daylight,
A dawn hardly changed from night,
In long dim passages underground.
The pale ray tells this day is worst,
Buried ‘neath our secret mound
Built in strongest fortress round -
But tomorrow will be the first
Of better days when wine and meat
And proud bronzed brooches
Shining as the light approaches
Will cheer the clans to dance and eat.
...........................................................
Poem about Celtic Winter Solstice Holy Day
for Deborah Guzzi's competition.
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