Post by LeoVictorBriones (poetremains) on Dec 26, 2007 22:03:17 GMT -5
The silent clang of the clay bell,
the dull murmur above a moss infested sea,
the still darkness of a plum confessional,
to hang neck high from a noose
above the canyon of sculpted earth,
to see from beyond the sultry spiral of clouds and dust
a single green and lustrous blade of grass,
to dip the poet into a silent, shiny, silver lake,
to pull the new born from his embryonic sack
and wrap his umbilical cord around
the twisted, gnarled tree of life
and bury the eldest son of all the earth
in the tin casket of dogged death
to be and see all that we could never see
to live and love all that we could never love
and still beg like a hollow cylinder
to listen to life’s lonely wind
and wish that we could be the poet
chiseled to the granite tome of history.
