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IV. Isaiah

If ever on the moors in seeking
Zarephath she faltered—
White of gossamer and lamb—

And the well in running over
Colored bloodred clay
Lapis Lazuli, sweetened to dewpoint

As for what it meant
To those that saw and waited
Prophets and disciples of an
Instant; bear witness to the
World reborn (not premeditated)

At muddy dawn in unloved scrubland plots
Subsequent to love running sacred between
The pages of an unloved tome, a fissure

What is a truth?
Could I reach out
And touch you?

What holds your heart, Elijah?
Who can you see beneath the glass
Who stares back from the bottom of a raindrop
Flashing past before convening
With the ground?

Did you know, my dear,
I stem from the disillusionment of ground
And the resurrecting of fraught winter
Sky?
Did you know,
I am alive and dying to go, now,
To arise from Pelas and walk free in sun again?

I want to love the rain
So that it knows

I want to lavish love upon your
Lips, your hands,
Your neck that holds
Your temples, the gaps between
Your ribs, and vertebrae, and 50 billion stars
Part IV of IX
Q  Mar 2014
For Allison
Q Mar 2014
We found out on a Wednesday,
Two days too late.

We walked barefoot through the dunes after sunset
And picked every yellow flower we could find.
(There were only yellow flowers.)

We put them out to sea,
One for each part of you we had loved.
One for your father who had loved you.
And one for each of the things you had loved,
Those lucky things,
Your best friend, your favorite bra.
A dozen scrubland daisies in the low tide.

The color stained our hands
And I cried every time I saw it-
On my palms, on the shoulders of the highway.
As if you had put every yellow thing on earth
And I would never be allowed
To forget it, the same way
I would never be allowed
To forget you.
Vous avez protégé ceux qui ne pouvaient pas se protéger eux mêmes.

3/19/14
Rob Rutledge  Nov 2014
Offering
Rob Rutledge Nov 2014
Every gift that I have been given
Shall be lain down upon the road
That leads to you.
An offering of sight,
Eyes left in the dust beside the path.
A sacrifice of silence,
Tongue nailed to the frame of your door.
A pennance to hear,
Ears scattered among the scrubland
Walking unguided into the abyss
Nothing left to miss but fear.
Mary Pear  Dec 2016
The Viaduct
Mary Pear Dec 2016
A viaduct looms over my daily commute; trains rattle above.
I pass through its belly each day.
A canal ambles beneath one armpit,
Scrubland loiters under the other.

In the belly , glaring headlights inch forward towards their kin;
Metal, rubber and glass jostle for place,
Engines thrumming.
Shiny shoes pinch and stiff collars tighten;
Fingers start drumming.
Deadlock.
Gridlock.

On the indolent canal a barge floats serenely, fat fish meander and
Skinny - legged moor hens tiptoe through the reeds.
An old man in rough tweeds pokes his stick through the scrub land on the other side,
Searching for blackberries.

Lights change futilely; amber, green and red.
Engines rev and teeth grit.
The belly rumbles.

Ducks fly in and land on the still water of the canal.
They swim in formation under the bridge.
On the other side the old man sits to eat his fill
His fingers purple with juice.
Clouds scud, a breeze cools and the sun appears.

Collars stiffen, indicators tick, nails are bitten
As the cars inch forward.
The bloated belly heaves
As a few cars cross the border to meet another impasse.

Concentric circles appear on the surface of the water
And gnats flicker above it.
A family of coots sets out for a morning outing
And a kestrel hovers above.

Deep in the undergrowth field mice
Scurry away from the old man's boots.
Dry sticks snap under his heel
and the sun warms his thinning pate.

He takes the slow path through the undergrowth,
Meets an ancient lane
And strolls the familiar path home.
Devon  Apr 2014
Remember
Devon Apr 2014
Remember:

bare feet flying across
ashy, sun scorched trails
cape of gold hair billowing behind
- camouflage in the golden brown scrubland

run. Run. RUN!

as far and as fast as growing legs could carry
racing the sunset
through fields, over hills, to the very top
you have to beat the sunset!

up there, I found peace,
alone, between sun and stars.
alone, between light and dark.

*remember who you are devon.
A cageling lurking in darkness , printing
impressions upon cobblestone and
wetted grass
Accused by sunlight
Its forfeiture of anonymity gracing
my brow , fragmenting scrubland in
vivacious color
Copyright March 3 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Harriet Cleve  Nov 2019
Beryl
Harriet Cleve Nov 2019
In the dense scrubland of a Guayan jungle

my girl Beryl cuts a swathe

larger than an Indian Elephant

no bigger girl God ever made

once she stared a rhino down

kicked a vulture out of town

took on skinheads, chains and all

smashed their heads in, what a doll

Beryl writes me every day

she's heading home this coming May
Paul House May 2018
Fending off scrubland and bare, blue mountain
Logroño huddles in a heap and appears to slide
Almost lazily away from the slow-moving river.
Originality created and arranged easily
By the gloom trapped inside each filthy passage.
Garbage piles against *****, brown walls,
Crammed together and splintering in the sun.
And now and again a scrap of paper
Will fill huge as a sail and deny these still
October nights with a careless movement,
******, obtrusive and far too sudden,
Like the iron bridge which astonishes the dark
With such bright lights and emptiness, asking
For the beige mac, the turned-up collar and trilby,
The mysterious meeting, the garbled message,
When there is only me and the stone Roman bridge,
Illuminated and from another time.
The road from Santiago and the sandalled
Pilgrim loaded down with belief are no more than
A thing remembered or to wish for. But still,
High above the town, the twin Baroque towers
Of the cathedral resist change, insist on
More than a casual glance as I stand here now,
Balconied above the square, safe with French songs,
Edith Piaf and my cultivated tongue
Which nobody understands, and their so strange
Words which I try to learn, and don’t.
Then suddenly to see you simply among
These narrow streets and crowds of people,
Long boots and beautiful, is more than enough
To recall something bright in life after all.
What bearhugs and stalls our nation patchly dominate as dry scrubland.
Teaching every crop
a lesson of drought resistance
Above poisoned tables;
Below rainless hourglasses.
Chameleons clouds now and then promise-
To  forfeit what sums
Well-known to the prickly cacti
Traumatising corns bone.
Tongue is given to apathy
by golden roots
digesting for another
In the wetlands.
Moved by poverty

— The End —