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William Clifton Mar Continue reading Mark Sep Appreciate your help Bros. Sam Stone Grenier Apr This is simply because one is unable To understand an idea without the use of the mind. HotSauceMcPoetry Sep Haley christine delahoussaye Feb Where they at tho?
Because according to hot Melanie Wotherspoon Jul Ron Sanders Feb There is a gorge, its walls shattered by cold; a once-green thing that, in dying, birthed a thousand aching fissures. It works its jagged way downhill, round ragged rifts and drifts until it comes upon a little frosted wood.
Ode to your ghetto booty
There is a wood, an island locked in ice. Within this wood the gorge descends. It wanders and it wends; it brakes and all but ends outside a clearing wet with sun. And there, forking, its bent and broken arms embrace a strange, enchanted glade.
This poems story
There is a glade. And in this glade the black bears sleep, though salmon leap fat between falls. Here the field mouse draws no shadow, the eagle seeks no prey; they spend their while caressed by rays, and halcyon about are they. Here rabbit and fawn may linger, no longer booty they flee. For in this timeless, taintless space, the Wild has ceased to be. Outside the glade are shadow and prey, are ice and poem death. There blood may run freely. There the eagle, that thief, is a righteous savage, a noble fiend.
But once in the glade he is dove, and has no taste for blood, running freely or otherwise. And in this glade there nests a pool: a dazzling, blue-and-silver jewel; profoundly deep, pristinely clear. All who sip find solace here, for this is the Eye of Being. They lap in peace, assuming blear, not knowing it is seeing. And ever thus this pool shall peer: a silent seer, reflecting on—all that Is, and all Beyond.
Outside the glade there lies a world where rivers ever run, where ghastly calves in random file revile a bitter sun. East, the day is born in mist. West she dies: her rest, the deep. And North…North the Earth lies mute. Wind gnaws her hide, wind wracks her dreams.
Wind screams like a flute in her white, white sleep. But in the glade are tall, stately grasses, sunning raptly, spinning lore. In this wise the glade weaves its word, airs its views. They do not wither with fall, for in the glade there is no fall. They do not bind or wilt or brown—they gesture, spreading the mood, the mind; conveying, indeed, the very soul of the glade.
As ever they have, as they shall evermore. Bees do not hum here; they sing. They fatten the dream. Mellow and round are the timbres they sound, sweet is the music they bring. Birds do not sing here—they play. They carry the theme. Dulcet and warm are the strains they perform. Gifted musicians are they. All in the glade are virtuosi. They were born to create. Melody, harmony, meter…are innate.
Now the performance is lively and bright, now full, now almost still. And yet…there was a day, long ago in a dream, when this ongoing opus was torn. And on that day so the lullaby goes the wind brought a scream, and Dissonance was born. There was a noise. Moose tensed, their coffee eyes narrowed, their patient brows creased. Bees mauled the tempo, birds lost their place.
There was a crash, and a shriek, and a naked, bleeding beast burst stinking through the fern, fell stumbling on its face. Moose scattered: unheard of. Sheep brawled, geese burst out of rhyme. The symphony, forever endeavored to soar sublime, fluttered, plunged, and, for all of a measure, ceased. The pool was appalled…what manner brute—what kind of monster was this?
Furless flank to forelimb, hide obscured by blood. As for its face…it had no face; only a look: of shock frozen in time, of horror in amber.
A deep welling rift ran temple to chin, halving the mask, caving it in. Such a grievous wound…the pool watched it stagger, on two legs and four, thrashing about till it came to a rise. There it labored for air, wiped the blood from its eyes, lashed at illusion, looked wildly round. Beholding the pool, the beast tumbled down. And there this wretch plunged his thirst, drank his fill, fell back on his haunches. The pool became still. The two traded stares.
The glass read his features: that durable eye pondered the wreckage and probed the debris. Revolted, the pool sought the succor of sky. But that thing remained—that face…in all creation…surely there could be…no other creature so ugly as he.
And he gazed in the glass. Beneath the surface were…images…swimming in currents of shadow and light. He saw half-shapes and fragments…hideous men, exotic beasts…saw blue worlds of water, saw white worlds of ice…it was all so vague and unreal—yet somehow strangely familiar. Deeper he peered, but, as his mangled face neared, the sun smote the pool and the shapes disappeared.
Fantails and timber wolves, stepping in sync, paused for a sniff, stooped for a drink. Bees, pirouetting, threw light in his eyes. Seizing the moment, the pool pressed its hold. And the glade revolved. This place was madness; he struggled to stand, but, weak as he was, keeled over cold. And the glade heaved a sigh, and the tall grass reclined, in curious patterns once rendered in whim.
That big booty
Far off in thunder the hard world replied, as iced pines exploded and screamed on the breeze. Down bore the sun, a chill just behind. The pool, grown blood-red, fended frost from its rim. Details dissolved in the oncoming tide.
The pool dimmed to black. Night seeped through the trees. Now flora found slumber while, pulsing below, the pool was infused with a soft ruby glow. Soon birds bearing beech leaves, and needles of pine, laid down a spread and returned to the limb.