"moroni" poems
A swollen sun descends upon us.
small children at play with painted faces.
time is not an endless tick, one and then another
(the plague nearest our dwelling)
but a single broad and present moment stretching
out and on forever.
sometimes i feel my heart will burst
scattered about, then gathered up in a world of rag and bone.
seeds for the great harvest are but a payment for a
karmic debt -
a purple heart sacrifice of my broken hand -
a slice from stem to stern.
my eyes they sink into my head.
the world is a deep grey beneath the deep stars.
the constant chatter in the skull -
a fallen angel named Moroni.
my sunken eyes watch me lift the bad hand
the heathen of my good intentions -
the purple heart of a bad apostle
the shackles of my station
the facing of certain destruction within the grim Hallway of Anubis.
a single moment stretching on forever and a balancing of the heart.
a swollen sun descends upon the third circle of Hell - a place where I no longer live.
Aug 2, 2020
Aug 2, 2020 at 10:34 AM UTC
"Angel Moroni"
In Salt Lake City
I hear most greenery is planted
Artificial desert bloom
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"Comic Relief"
Oh Captain, My Captain
Robin Williams stands triumphant on table
Dead poets rejoice
-
"Introspective Primate"
Visits to the Zoo
Great Ape gazes despondent through glass
Greater apes are we?
-
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
Angel Moroni watches over his fold
He holds on to a horn said to be made of gold
He stands on top waiting the moment to arrive
When it finally comes the horn takes a dive
The earth was tired and decided to shake
The Angel looked down during what was a quake
What he saw was surprising and actually quite weird
All the people were gathering things it appeard
Why do they need all that paper in rolls
Why do they need all those bottles, who knows
The horn was broken when it hit the earth
It was bent in half, now what's it worth
Someone grabbed it right up and ran like the wind
He was chased and caught as this was a sin
He would have liked to play that horn
He held it so long and now he must mourn
What to do, what to do, is all he could think
The world has gone nuts and he needs a drink...
Brian Hill - 2020 # 79
Mar 19, 2020
Mar 19, 2020 at 9:54 AM UTC