Post by LynnDoiron on May 11, 2008 16:59:17 GMT -5
(This poem as been posted for some months in The Studio with only one comment from lavonne, so thought I'd post here to see if I can get any feedback. Thanks. All comments welcome and appreciated whether or not I make the changes -- I do truly consider your thoughts. lynn
The sky is falling through the stars
above these hills, this meadow,
and there are places where night leaves
footprints on the prairie grass,
scuffing off the dewdust with drizzles
of a deeper dark. We have six miles
in the going and the coming back
and will group to make ourselves look bigger
in the instance of our introduction
to some big cat or another that thinks
she owns the places of the day,
the places of the woods. They say
to keep eye contact with a cougar, wave
sticks, don’t run. We ask the rangers
what should be done
with phantoms,
the ones who shake the stars
in passing, quiver stretches of long grasses
just beyond our tent flaps. Old soldiers, they—
one carrying his right foot
like a baby in his arms, the other
holding forth his liver like a knight
proffers his sword to an honored liege.
Why do I dream us to this place, sister?
Is it here that we will make our stand,
wounded wind in our faces? Or will we
tat the fallen sky into holier tomorrows,
craft blankets for our backs? There!
the lioness of dusk cries out, I own no more
of sky than you! If only we believed in lionese.
If only we believed.
The sky is falling through the stars
above these hills, this meadow,
and there are places where night leaves
footprints on the prairie grass,
scuffing off the dewdust with drizzles
of a deeper dark. We have six miles
in the going and the coming back
and will group to make ourselves look bigger
in the instance of our introduction
to some big cat or another that thinks
she owns the places of the day,
the places of the woods. They say
to keep eye contact with a cougar, wave
sticks, don’t run. We ask the rangers
what should be done
with phantoms,
the ones who shake the stars
in passing, quiver stretches of long grasses
just beyond our tent flaps. Old soldiers, they—
one carrying his right foot
like a baby in his arms, the other
holding forth his liver like a knight
proffers his sword to an honored liege.
Why do I dream us to this place, sister?
Is it here that we will make our stand,
wounded wind in our faces? Or will we
tat the fallen sky into holier tomorrows,
craft blankets for our backs? There!
the lioness of dusk cries out, I own no more
of sky than you! If only we believed in lionese.
If only we believed.
