"canonized" poems
The legere sacristy of pure love blazing
Feline confluence across ethereal plains
Arched angelic collusion of things sepulchral
The arcane occidere travisty of
Transmogrification canonized
Darkling eminence ordained;
The verity aura of radiance
Twilights tidal blood- dye magenta,
Germane sleek meagre wealth chiming lo!.
Finitudes golden prayer draping flounded
Brutality tithing the zenith with mealy
Doer aptitude majestically turbulent
Sacrificing thoriums weld feudal
Of heavens deceitful soothsayers,
Fellow djinn of Gotterdammerung
Soli of vilest stoic jingoism.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
There is a weird
And not so wonderful fetish
Particularly British
Common
Amongst commoners
In the United Kingdom
Although the aristocracy
And royalty
Are seen by all
With eyes to see
To have behaved
Abominally
Tortured and twisted
Enslaved, enchained
***** re-shaped
With bloodstained hands
The entire planet
Sending ordinary
More innocent
English men
To do their ***** work
Their dastardly
Disastrous deeds
As slaves of knaves
Through common British eyes
These horrible people
Are placed high upon
Holy pedestals
Romanticized
Idealized, Idolized
Canonized
Perhaps there's some
Vicarious thrill
Exercising
Enforcing
Power and evil will?
But the hand no pleasure gets
When, through rubbing, wets itself!
Sean Hunt
Windermere January 1st 2016
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
*I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world;
And for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.*
-Shakespeare, Richard II, Act V.I
The world I fathom rhetorically orbits
around the whirr of a dust-peppered
triad of turbine limbs
inbreeding infinitely as electricity's
treaty permits
into a smorgasbord whirl of
processed plastic white
A remedial sun I compose
to counter outside's oven bulb
in the world I do not fathom
Heat's ****** of humidity
is not lost on me
with no canonized sense
even to establish it with
And even my own remedial sun
restricts a reality-knighting touch
with its ozone cage pried open
in unseen haste - a victim
of college's fugitive waltz
encased in the jazz fusion dance hall
of the world I cannot fathom
Is there a dual left-footed
interpretive dance of a carbon dimension
outside of reality's steaming kitchen
to fathom me?
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
losing thoughts to the margins in
some great depression of creative
outlet. taking inked works from a
revered Shakespeare born of the
Moorish states, filling out cata-
combs of this one's entombed
thoughts. and pondering Paris
of some earlier century, how
those writers flocked together.
how this one loathes his current
centuries other writers.
and these, are we, birds of a feather?
flocking, so to be better caught
by twelve-gauge scatter shot?
perhaps we are of a generation
lost, with blinders grown thru years.
expats stranded in a sea of comp-
lacancy in isolation with warring
souls raising higher parapets for
safety? this one's soul may have
raised too high fortifications,
forcing attrition upon the inhab-
itants. this one's soul may have
slaughtered the others for fear
of a low-cat staring up to
the eyes of its King. and
lone heart-beat echoing off
solid stone walls built of mortar
mixed with sweat and tears from
desecrated - of the desolated - and
now forsaken culture only a
quarter-century out. this one's
dogma consisting of self-martying
psychopomps pre-proclaiming ..
'I went out myself into
an immortal body, and
now I am not what I was
before. Now born in mind.'
this one's canonized martyrs only
seeking migration and division.
seeking the Kepigori for hopes of
retrieving knowledge lost - placed
without qualm of forgetting - the
ancestors bore unto still setting
mounds of clay mixed blood. and
when finally set, when finally full-
formed, when finally upright and
springing forth the common know-
ledge which was taught once in
truth. and, now breaking in thought
while this one's hours rot, while this
one leaves an abrupt end.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
Formless words...broadcast scribbling space, their diagram
of poetic motion washes over you...formed on impact.
Dark room's glow in broad daylight--your fully developed
picture...deepest blue of two worlds in one, betwixt vibration.
Hue of the canonized, twanging entire a cloudless sky...
enriched tenfold in mimicry of you.
If only stained glass and silk would wed, search light's
spectrum...distill the most affecting gradation of blue--
then would you see a just replica?
Visionary's shield...where earthen wend unveils the abysmal...
that eyes may remain upon you--till one is ferried, and
vision seen through.
Apogee of seventh sea...epicenter of dancing Nine Muses,
whose round keeps the Blue Flower earthbound.
Blue Flower of the poet's pilgrimage, whose synesthesia
electrifies.
Blue Flower...a nebula pinned to earth, the name of spring
born of you.
The golden section of angels fly their flawless form to you...
that High Art may pray to High Art.
...Blue Flower, commended spirit rife with grace...whose
ceaseless hour at hand holds beauty alone.
Mind, quill to tongue riven--if ever...ever is now--Blue Flower...
ever is Now!
The words of this poet have begun fasting...not to eat of what
they cannot sacrifice...their Blue Flower.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
This pillar of Hercules
is an unthinking, unfeeling piece of rock
with no choice but to hold its ground
and jut its granite neck out to ships
proud that so many have canonized it
as the symbol of strength and fortitude and stability.
You stare at this rock
with your decades of service
to a world that has taken from you
your time, your good will, your money
your extra effort when no one was looking
And you quietly pass
with your hands in your pockets
Instead of holding, or being held in content.
I have done that, you say.
I am that, even with a choice not to be.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 1:02 PM UTC
When I die
(if my parents don't know)
remember to weigh me judiciously with authorial intent.
Don't let my father go to the front
and tell everyone what a good daddy's girl I was
how I loved fishing with him
and wore my camo pants like a champ.
I was 2.
I didn't know better.
Don't let my mother's lip tremble
or let her say how much my writing made her cry
how I spent my evenings worshiping textbooks
and typing til 2 am for large red A's on my papers.
I was worshiping the body and mind of a guy
who never wanted me back.
Don't let my father see my body
the tattoo next to my left hip bone
the one I got my freshman year
because why the **** not.
Don't let my mother see my face
the rings in my lip and nose and ears
because they told me only ***** had those
and I wanted to see if they were right.
Don't let my father tell stories afterwards
all my achievements and awards
every 100% I ever gave.
He never told them to me.
He only has pride in the dead.
Don't let my mother tell stories afterwards
because she'll get them right
but tell them wrong.
She'll either laugh or cry halfway through
and I don't know which is worse.
Don't let my father sing the hymns
or even say how much he loved hearing my voice.
I could never hear myself over him.
Don't let my mother lament that I never sang for her
she knew why
she married him.
Don't let them tell you how I was a good Catholic girl
who always went to mass
and prayed the rosary on roadtrips
and never ate meat on Fridays during Lent (not even on accident).
I stopped going to mass after freshman year
and never prayed while driving
and made it a point to eat as much meat
as I possibly ******* could.
Don't let them tell you how I was a good sister
how excited I was when she was born
so helpful and caring.
She never fell off the bed when she was little.
I kicked her.
But especially don't let them trick you into thinking I was perfect.
I do not want to be canonized by my parents
who knew so little
and saw even less
because I hid myself away
so they wouldn't be
disappointed.
In fact,
don't let them come at all.
They'll be mourning the wrong girl.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
One time not too long ago
a sunset would avert my eyes.
Its beauty surpassed my idea
of reality canonized.
Soon, I adjusted and could stare,
and read what the world would tell;
but then a light, whose eyes I could not meet,
had intoxicated me like a Lenaea's spell.
Then the earth quivered as I fell,
awaking hours later and alone no longer.
The light-- superior than a mundane description--
was the warmth by whom my soul was conquered.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 11:42 PM UTC
Dark sea wine,
send me to Brazil
Caracas, Venezuela,
the Coasts of Gold,
strung out on oblivion,
drowning in the sun,
each exhale an eon,
collapsing upon itself
Hail Mary, sweet ****** mother,
salty ginger, stellar space,
answer a beggar's prayer,
somewhere let horses run wild,
and may a lion lie with a lamb's tail
Soaked in jazzy flow,
the white Apogaean tides
crash like a silver blade against bronze,
romance, the death of heroes,
Achille's spear,
penetrating this moment, ripping it bare,
slicing young flesh,
open wounds bleeding blessed red life to the world,
an amber glaze
Thrones pin peace to the wall,
a trophy pelt for all to see
with cool blazing eyes,
yet all look away
while I two step waltz like a jigging liquid light wave,
lithe feet raining down moves like a dog in the woods,
chasing deer through smokey paths hidden from human stained eyes
by thick brush
Stiff whiskey midnight,
gibbous moon hangs mellow yellow like half a wheel of cheese,
canonized in secret watching,
the pretty girl problems
thrown around like trash blown in the park
lovely day, where does this path lead?
the open road forever howls
life, death, birth, infinity
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
The world’s smallest basket lies tucked away
Inside a jar for field-trip wide open
Eyes of wonder to chew on, settled in
The drooling smiles of truant minds like most
Sticky wads of gum that hang dried to the
Undersides of every desk throughout the
Pine Belt area of Free State County,
And all that surrounds circled about one
Solitary clandestine blade of grass
Tucked & woven into antiquity
By enchanted hands, & no doubt the work
Of Ma Universe slippin’ her divine
Fingers inside the dirt-caked skin she’d
Herself sewn onto one of her very
Own living/breathing marionettes,
Borrowing the gloves of ancestors called on
All the way to back to the first blade of grass
Plucked, & the first dreams that woke young shaman
Poets mad with visions streaming like
Images from celestial antennas
Into intricately knit blades of grass,
Sharpened on dewdrops & the unforgiving
Wilderness of frontiers, like a sea of
Green knives crashing their piercing waves on prairie
Shores while dull eyes attempt to draw blood with
Sharpened pencils on a sketch of its beach.
The towering sandcastles & woven
Baskets & cosmic canons are canonized
Eternal in that magnificent
Fireworks show behind tempered glass, in that
One simple blade of grass.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
You stare as if you know
how my blood runs through my veins.
What wood are you?
Did you not come from a clan
of massacred trees
chiseled by an inglorious machete?
Were you the door that barred
the perils to our house?
Did you block the brutal sun from getting in?
Who carved you?
Was it not the ******
Was it not the thief?
Was it not the murderer behind the bars?
And you accuse me to have sinned
when all you do is mimic the fingers of your god.
Have you even opened those tinted lips
to mutter a prayer?
Why did you not dare to move
or tap my back when I opened my zipper?
Instead you feasted on my obscenity.
Why can you not tell your god
I attempted to fast?
Come!
Bleed and let these thirsty eyes witness your miracle!
Idiot.
©04-10-13
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:34 AM UTC
do you know island, that you
are and have always been thriving
on the life that you give yourself?
unmoored you are not.
you are about as adrift
as the coral reefs
that ring your most sun drenched
shorelines
your history
shouldered with love -
you are rife with a certain heaviness
that weighs in a fastening
balance, a brilliant strategy
in cahoots with
all the others
it is true, of course
that we commune with the same sun
the waters drift between us and our neighbors
many of the same clouds are found
sauntering amongst our respective mountains
but you - you are filled with your own stories
they are still echoing,
incantations deeply canonized
from within those temples you call
forests
your very own cosmology that
you yourself
are only beginning to discover
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
Well I don't know what to say,
I'm almost glad you didn't stay.
This way I'll have never disappointed you.
At least you're far away,
While I keep my demons at bay.
In my head I've already anointed you.
Canonized in the depths of my mind,
Somewhere I thought no one would find.
I guess I'm not as clever as I thought,
I didn't learn the lessons you taught.
I still have myself fooled into thinking that someday you'll come back, homesick for what used to be.
**** I don't even know if you could find the time to think about me.
I'd be shocked and speechless should my ears ever find the sound of your voice somewhere behind,
Coaxing my life back to juvenile delinquencies when I didn't have half this ****** up mind.
I guess what I'm trying to tell you,
What I no doubt know you already knew,
That I still think about the past.
My fingers raw from counting the days,
long now passed in a vicious haze.
well the fire we started just turned to ash.
so this hole that's been burning in the pit of my chest has done nothing but eat away at my ribs and lungs.
It's been burning away since the days we got lost when we were young.
Just like the house we saw on Graham,
With the burned out windows and it's blackened walls,
I hear the aching in my heart, so lonely in this empty flesh,
It sounds like a ghost as it calls.
I keep calling your name, but you'll never answer.
The sooner I accept that, the better.
Just know I'll pick up where we left off.
I'll try to move on, but I don't think I'm that strong.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗
Hopery, changery, stranger-than-strangery
tip the good vicar your hat—
as he sits with Obama, the global Gautama
indulging in neighborly chat.
Popery, popery, changery-hopery
grant the old Pontiff his wish.
Then summon a bishop to season and dish up
a kettle of catechized fish.
Changery, hopery—swing from the ropery,
garnish the Vatican stew.
The Cardinals compassed, the media rumpused
the Protestants joined in, too…
Fakery, changery, safety in dangery
lack of direction was lost
as it became clear that no concord was near
and the threshold of lunacy crossed.
Changery-hopery, soap-on-a-ropery,
buy the Obama a beer.
Let the Lord’s liberation enlighten our nation
as forums and quorums get queer.
Hopery, changery, babe-in-a-mangery
hail the immaculate mess;
until limbo is purged and repentance is urged
and the canonized con-men confess.
Babilo-mockery, roll with the rockery
kiss the pontificate ring;
til’ the old Argentinian wax Constantinian
causing Gods angels to sing.
Jiggery-pokery fooling the folkery
monkery second to none…
what was once sacrilegious is now a religious
conventional focus of fun.
Papacy, lunacy piping the tunacy
Father goose mothered the egg –
but it cracked in the nest while the stupefied West
lit a match to a gunpowder keg.
Yessiree/nopery—smoking the dopery
opiates dulling the masses
who bow genuflecting, with candles reflecting
the shine of their Latinate *****
Fakery funkery, pachyderm trunkery
hierophants never forget
but the clown and his trainer cut loose the restrainer
and cancelled the circus’s debt.
Piggery, smokery, tighten the chokery
offer the refugees bacon;
their mullahs may howl with a slaughterhouse scowl
but the empire’s free for the takin’…
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
The Magician, gifted deadbeat, listless designer of immortal destiny, tragic comedian of the purest order, locked and buried, chained to the weight of indecision,
Ordained by cancerous night, canonized in the manifestations of nightmare heart withdrawals, ascending the cigarette strewn steps to lost versions of heaven,
Eternal kindred lovers in mourning, trace the chemical pathways to a neural shutdown disaster, martyrs imprisoned by their own mission statements, murdered by the cosmic truths exposed in tape recorded suicide manifestos, played backwards for empty auditoriums in a requiem for their apathy
Endowed with brilliant catastrophe, with the wand double edged with creation balanced to destruction, with infinite purpose,
The Magician breaks as he parallels the Fall,
the all consuming detachment,
the disconnected realities viewed from shattered lenses,
From distilled terror, from magnificent prose, from the ashen pillars of kingdom rotted, gutted, broken
Holy and lost, wisdom wasted,
As a mother's rage moves 1000 eyes and 1000 hands to some unclear end that I doubt I will be around to see
The Magician smokes his way to an early grave
While flowers grow over the memorials of those unmoved
I'm not sure what any of this means or why it should matter
But listen
There is a story here, if you will have it
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
give me-the bowie knife of repartee,
nothing more satisfying than the
quick stabbing, a good blood letting,
in your genteel face, no hellish
moderated pace, the energetic plunge
of a quick lunge into the woebegone,
long after you count the meter tempo’d
use fingers and toes, but needing to hold
your nose, to include that extra
grace note, that belies denies the harmony
the tules and rules of calling order
to control the roost, sine-one
is a victim of a
down and virtuous ***** verbal slashing!
count my syllables, never,
let my stanzas run free,
like an African tiger,
with the goat of format
mounted in between his teeth,
bloodied and dripping dead,
the squealing of hyper innocente,
silent after cries of, kind sir,
me thinks thou protest too much!
we can squish and twist our holy words,
into formal tuxedos of cantankerous
arrowed arrogance,
but know this,
roses are read, them
violets, blue, have
turned millions of children to avert their
eyes from anything thereafter that was classified, notarized, canonized, sanctified
as the write rules of poetry
peals of pearls are born with parentage
of a lousy
grain of sand,
the words etched in the
lines upon my hand,
are lifelines of sidewalk cracks,
discarded candy wrappers,
the twisted ends cigarette butts,
used as proof that ash and dust are the
genetic source material of uncommon
great composition, given to those who
love the common touch of leaves of grass,
thstbeneath the heat of the sun that
exposes the nothingness of bitterness
know no one can run from the golden
visibility, of a sun, talent in pursuit of
egoism is a long road to a short history
yeah.
(faster than a speeding bullet)
Feb 18, 2025
Feb 18, 2025 at 3:28 AM UTC
They built you to be burned,
my gilded temple,
And everyone sobbed when you went up in flames.
For a week you were the jewel of Black Rock City,
A building but so much more, the world's largest harp,
more magnificent than the one I traded for my ticket.
You were our chosen sacrifice,
A holy place people visited to
cry, mourn the dead, and find peace.
With silver paint I wrote
about my heartache and loneliness
on your walls, as so many others before me had.
Standing around the funeral pyre,
We shared a moment of silence for those departed,
As you burned for our sins and were canonized.
The hush lasted until you were nothing more than:
the reflection of flames on a weeping face,
A charred spot in the desert, ash carried away by the wind.
Fire destroyed what was once beautiful,
but the embers of the temple danced in the pitch-black sky;
like an infinite number of flickering stars.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
suffer the young poets to come
they are already good – most –
what they need – like it or not –
is a heavy-handed teach with a
heart of steel and a mind of
compassion…. The other way
around? the behavior education
model? nope. Whitman
wannabe’s will do it on their own?
nope. Dickinson’s to be discovered
in yellow paper letters in death?
spinsterhood to be canonized like
Lorca? there are laureates in front
of me, standing tall at the podium –
life is to be lived, words to be spit
out with relish, juxtaposing music
with tears – letting ambition curdle
and toss away transience – Amen.
© Lewis Bosworth, 9/16
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
"Everybody loves notes"
Its the way we convey
In written words
What can't be said
Through spoken tones
Or relay those feelings
Which can't be expressed
Through candor and verbatim
Alone
No,
Its more complex
To add a style
Rich with syntax
And double in meaning
So I can draw you in
Then repeat again
After every time you're reading
In this way
May you never forget
The moment in time
I'm after
Immortal is the scribe
That can contrive
A letter of the soul
Forever
P.S.
...
A Post Scriptum endeavor
Intending to highlight
This memory
Canonized together
...
(Everybody loves notes)
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
Ancient Georgian ghosts be led
King Vakhtang intracranial seer
Saw what was inside your head
Caucuses he found and ruled
Iberian Legions Of The Dead
You a falcon as his guide
Pheasant torn in two by talons
Ability to plan future by glide
Vision of a challenge to balance
Gripping what mind shan’t hide
Persia rips upon fortress strong
Anatolian wars come hither
Goes on and on centuries long
Great cultures die in dither
Indecisive waves; washing wrong
“Wolf head” King Vakhtang Gorgasali
Ghoul and canonized orthodox saint
Knows plight Sassanid Iranian hegemony
And history will continue further taint
This Rose Revolution remit cacophony
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
Rocketing to the moon,
USS Southbound Phoenix crew
and I, your Major Tom,
depressurized and canonized,
a cannonball of lost trajectory.
Space is the only place
appropriate for my recourse,
tracing invisible vectors across
lonely forlorn skies, dotted
flecks of paint across cold
charred canvas of night.
If god had done more than flicked
dripping fingers of existence, none can tell.
i, Major Tom, dare only to
reach my stubby arms out
of my rusty lifelike cage.
i fear no lack of oxygen
for i am breathless.
i fear no love for i
am heartless now.
The vacuum should fear
me, the hollow flight
suit of Major Tom,
stretching out to embrace
nothing in particular anymore.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
Be with me.
Love me because we match.
I’m crazy and you know everything.
I have holes and so do you, we can fill them.
Strip away my ignorance, replace it with knowledge.
My brain craves it, the rest of me just wants someone to be by.
I’m unhealthily infatuated with you, a sick obsession.
I cannot not think of you because you fascinate me too much.
Who are you and what have you done with me?
Captured some part of me that makes me not care about myself or state of mind.
It’s making me crazy.
Did you know you could do that?
That you have the power to drive someone up a wall.
And I should be canonized for the crap I put up with, I make miracles everyday.
I want to be with you just to talk to you all the time and discuss music and everything that is wrong with the world.
And even the things that are right, on occasion.
My mind can’t keep up with you,
You’re one too many.
You give me headaches.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
You told me you were trying.
I told you about the time
I threw up so hard I started praying.
I saw stars in my hair
and thought they might be angels.
But it was just the acid.
Just the light.
Just me, alone again
in a bathroom that never loved me back.
You didn’t say anything,
and that said everything.
You texted “sorry”
like a magician pulling shame from his sleeve,
then disappeared
like a good lie.
I stopped asking you
to prove yourself after that.
I just started watching
to see if you ever would.
Maybe I made the whole thing up.
Maybe you did say something.
Maybe it was kind.
Maybe it was cruel.
Maybe the light flickered
because of bad wiring,
not heaven.
Maybe I was just sick.
Maybe you were just tired.
Maybe none of it meant anything.
But then why
do I still dream in that fluorescent color?
Why does the silence still have your shape?
I built a chapel from our last conversation.
Tried to make the ache holy.
But I was the only one kneeling.
And no one wants a martyr
who won’t shut up.
You said I was unwell.
I said, Amen.
You said I was always bleeding.
I said, Isn’t that what makes it a miracle?
Because if this isn’t a resurrection,
then I’ve been dying for nothing.
I gave you the ugliest parts-
even the bathroom prayers,
even the version of me
that asked God to make you gentler.
You said, “I didn’t ask for that.”
I said, “Exactly.”
You weren’t the end of the world.
You were just the earthquake
I canonized.
The tremor I learned to waltz with.
The reason my mouth still tastes like salt
and I call it grace.
So if God ever comes back,
I’ll know how to greet him:
on my knees,
already emptied.
Jun 15, 2025
Jun 15, 2025 at 11:43 AM UTC
i watch you counting yourself out
courting little pets of body-parts
putting pennies on the trinket shelf
talking with wending wordage
about those gruff fellows
who've been pig-holing about your dwelling
that day you manage a back window
and escape
masquerade yourself as a gentleman
but they sniff at your aromas
these men in crude season
they circle you hinge-hipping
as you fleet the roads and fields
and evade into the dappling woods
"come on out we have you surrounded"
(you say they say)
you stay crossed legged a monk among trees
(these pleasing defenders)
you take off your dress and string it
from one of these trees
you dole yourself out
little pets for the undergrowth
you offer a curled shrew
from the space your kneecap once
occupied
you droop your warm left breast
and drop a beast from that cove
(a plump vole clambers fresh and
disorientated)
you plug one arm into loose soil
and the fingers snake root
separation at the elbow
and branches sprig out
both your thighs animate as fox cubs
your ***** leaves from between
and slinks under some ivy
your hair fiddles loose and travels off
in currents of breeze
before flitting into little finches
your back crumples with fungal looseness
your head weighs low
and the jaw lumps off
shuffling undecided on its form
your forehead bows to kiss the earth
and your face scatters a gaiety of insects and spores
all arts patterned about
your pile continues in this mattering manner
collapsing efficiently
you've canonized in nature
now you’re abroad mature and freed
to tell your friend this story
a spirit without brag of these neat powers
one with mother glory
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 3:39 PM UTC
I wonder what the rabbit sees
when she passes through my backyard
garden. Catholic eyes that have canonized
nature’s wild mane
of vulcan brush and misty rain
does she think my sunflowers are just as beautiful?
and the rolling prairies of my
domesticated bend of the turnpike
are they just like the valleys she has
foraged through, beside the
shivering streams and
creepycrawling things, I
wonder if my nature is enough for her own
is the ant hill in my backyard garden still
sweet as the labor of the mountainspine
makes you sweat, admire the
dappled blueberries and
dark deer droppings
side by side, I once ate the deer’s own by accident and
I couldn’t tell the difference
but she is still just a rabbit and
has only seen the grocer’s slivered aisle of the world, she
hasn’t heard the wolf cry to the
violette moon
(god’s own thumbnail, mama used to say), or
smelled the dogwood in April
heard the mourning-song of the morning humpback while
the plowman’s humble dinner stays
salted by his moiled earthsoiled toilsweat
cried in the summershine of noontime Arizona rising and
laughed into the Amazon’s hair
stood tall on the moors, stood tall and faced the
edge of the world
kicked up the fertile dust of the African enterprise or
powdered her frosted nose alongside crystalline Mongols, no
she is just a rabbit, and I want to tell her all the secrets
Gaea has yet to murmur, low
but she is just a rabbit, and she sees my backyard garden
this wide world
and that is enough, for her own
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC