There are no lilacs--
purple-sweet after the rain,
no fields of fireflies,
no grand oaks that bend
to drink from giddy creeks.
No big old barns, painted-red,
brighten the horizon.
But, there are cats--
foul screams in the dark,
scat under the bougainvillea,
and terra cotta-tiled roofs that swarm
to devour cactus and creosote bush.
Shrouded, the distant mountains
choke on the sweat of the oasis.
There is no going back and no escape.
5 hours ago
4 comments:
You've developed a very powerful voice now you have turned from the metaphysical to the concrete. The poems still have that elegance of thought structure but the sound and imagery has purpose. This is a fantastic poem.
Paul,
If I tell you this is an old poem, you won't shave my head or fill my ears with peanut butter, will you?
Yes, I'm afraid I will have to fill your ears with peanut butter and jelly. You have tricked me again. You must have always had this unique and powerful voice. You are a fabulous poet, you know.
Well, thanks, Paul. I think I probably have lots of voices. Like a radio. Turn it on, spin the dial, and see what comes out. (Dial. Does that make me sound old? Heh.)
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