Let October’s fool fall With the autumn dusk; A cornfield tatterdemalion With terrible teeth And broomstick hands. High on the hill, Encircled by dancing children And harvest lovers, Jack’s pumpkin blazes As yellow as prairie gold Under the ghostly lantern moon.
A belated Halloween experiment - partially reconstituted poetry. More dilute and less tasty than its CS inspiration. ;)
‘I spot the hills With yellow ***** in autumn. I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins. On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon; I am a jack-o'-lantern With terrible teeth And the children know I am fooling.’ - Carl Sandburg, Theme in Yellow
As plaintive tones from a distant flute drifted across the mesa valley the sun over Spruce Tree House began its descent toward dusk.
Above the courtyard, Anasazi masons plaster-sealed the final stones on the great cylindrical tower. Collisions of mano and metate echoed across the canyon as women crushed dried kernals into cornmeal. Others hummed as their skilled hands brushed thin black patterns onto scores of newly crafted bowls and jars.
A young girl rushed up a ladder to announce her brothers' return from ripe mesa top fields, carrying baskets of fresh cut corn, squash and beans on their backs.
A summer of nourishing rain promised that storage cists would be stocked well with food for the arduous winter ahead and seed for the vernal plantings.
Dusk fell on Spruce Tree plaza as rich aromas of venison and fresh baked flatbread suffused the crisp October air.
Anasazi is the fourth poem in a cycle called Echoes from Colorado.
Looking down from over their bodies - I count them. My split mind at once rejoices in and recoils from that counting. Peering back over my shoulder I make dark associations. It’s as if I was afraid of becoming lost the way the bodies made a trail like bread crumbs, leading back from the places I had been. I walk with the Holy Light. I walk with my dark companion. I walk between the spines of the body shrikes. They harvest all my crumbs and remind me I am lost. They hook the bodies high from spikes so I look up to make the body count. I can see the Holy Script but I can’t seem to find the way. Red and gold beacons in the dream, flickering off and on like syncopated declarations as if saying: Here I am Here I am Here I am. All elbows and knees I slip between the webs of the orb weavers and the cactus spines of the butcher birds while they count the bodies for me: Here they are Here they are Here they are. Hang-dog and hard of breathing I have my medicine. I’m hanging from the sleeping cliffs over hell’s half acre and the high deserts. I remember my brother flying me to California on a great olive branch. He fed me sushi and smiled while he watched by brain heal. But I was coming for the bodies. My count was smaller then, but it was high enough for him and his hands were the keepers of the flame. The fire there was exiled and quietly he laid it by. My brother spread out over the carpet of time like the faithful departed with the weavers and the shrikes and mounted bodies in the sky. A child appears before me on the walk - eyes like a baby deer. His mother is two blocks behind, so he asks three questions while he waits: Why are you smoking? Where are your hands? Is it getting dark soon? He leaves me to wonder where my hands are and where the dark is, the Holy Sage smoking at my side. Like some dark sabbath. Like some reading of the will. Like some dark and holy delta sleep in a crib of red clay. I have a feeling I have been gone a very long time and I want to be home now, but there is buzzing and chirping and a red light and Saul of Tarsus holds a great tome before me and with my hands I hide my eyes. I am the dreaming of the world of dreams. Therein the Holy Light rages like the flare of 1000 suns while my eyes are shuttered tight like old memories all gone beyond the sorrow. The old oath keepers are all plates and screws. The golden woven orbs and cactus spines are all empty on the altar like a decommissioned slaughterhouse. So I go and make a body count.
Shrikes (/ʃraɪk/) are carnivorous passerine birds of the family Laniidae. The family is composed of 33 species in four genera. The family name, and that of the largest genus, Lanius, is derived from the Latin word for "butcher", and some shrikes are also known as butcherbirds because of their feeding habits.
Rivers flowed from my eyes Into the seed within my heart I nourish the seed with the well of love right now I am in a drought I long to soak in water through my soil I long to spread my roots through this dry soft land I long to sow truth this is my intent I long to rise up and bloom I long to open my petals and taste the sunlight I yearn to bask in the warmth of your rays of love until we meet again I sleep and dream of you beneath my petals
Conceiving anew, Gaia Waiting for you, Messiah I have ideas swirling in my mind that I give birth to life Nurse these creations until they live in my life Or lives of many these burdens no longer heavy My babies saving me whenever I slip My babies keeping me sane during trips To the night of the dark soul to recover my shattered pieces Take these fragments to the sea To inner peace the blending of all my energies So I can co-create life for my sake because both halves are mine to take I am the seed and the nourishment I can create anything without interference Not one or the other but a combination which is better The ying and yang both blended together Inside of me and my soul, I speak My speech no longer riddled with insecurities Throat chakra open and my knowledge devoted To seeing the world change In Gaia's name
Raze the fields of poisoned crop. What antidote is there? No cure for absent hearts and black tar tears. Burn the stores of harvest grain claiming to be clean. Save the innocent seeds so we me grow free again.