The Friction of Grains
On the consenting injured tip
Of a madly colored, though feeble crayon,
We enacted a game of chance
And the final days are upon us.
The cell doors are sprung,
the backs of the public buses all turned to beds
All buzzing with the activity of honeysuckles and orchids and prickly pear
Blossoms-
Streets paved with rancid butter and bean husks
Smaller than those that nourished us during winters and springs in not long past;
Our gardens plowed and gutted, roots and vines displayed as trophies for inspection
By arts councils, tallied by crooked pens.
And though the number of eggs hatched
Naturally corresponds with the number of those fertilized,
I keep my sleeves fully extended against the promises of my neighbors and
My eyes on the sweeping hand of father time.
Of a madly colored, though feeble crayon,
We enacted a game of chance
And the final days are upon us.
The cell doors are sprung,
the backs of the public buses all turned to beds
All buzzing with the activity of honeysuckles and orchids and prickly pear
Blossoms-
Streets paved with rancid butter and bean husks
Smaller than those that nourished us during winters and springs in not long past;
Our gardens plowed and gutted, roots and vines displayed as trophies for inspection
By arts councils, tallied by crooked pens.
And though the number of eggs hatched
Naturally corresponds with the number of those fertilized,
I keep my sleeves fully extended against the promises of my neighbors and
My eyes on the sweeping hand of father time.
Dec 5, 2009 1:46:00 PM
Kia ora Adam,
Somehow I hear the sound of an old rusted gate banging and clanging in the wind as I read this. A belated Thanksgiving greetings to you and yours brother, and may the season be full of aroha. Kia kaha.
Aroha,
Robb top
Dec 8, 2009 6:46:00 AM
Well put!
You have a way with words.
pop top
Dec 15, 2009 2:17:00 PM
Gifted you are!
mfb top