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Showing posts with label Furies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Furies. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 17, 2020

Trog


There is movement all about me, forms I can’t discern, floating in my dreams
There are shadows on the cavern walls, wavering in chaotic streams

Questions scrape my bones like hungry wraiths, solutions never see the light of day
Bundle up the answers, bind them like sheaves of straw, set to fire in the night

The furies rise from the ash beds, there is no phoenix, no morning sun
           
Bury seeds in the cold-field, bits of knowledge, pushed into the wet earth
Fragile little plantlings hungry for life, set their roots and stretch out for the light
                       
Heedless of the storm descending, turn to face the darkened horizon, resisting
As dreams fall like stars from the sky, the harvest rots while and fields are set on fire  

There is phoenix rising, only the furies fly from the ash beds, their swarm blots the sun

We heard the promise and followed its call, we stood beneath the open sky
To bask in the solar wind, blind as the troglodyte emerging from the cave

Tuesday, September 3, 2019

Morning


Washed in morning light
Sparrows in flight spread their wings
Their flock fluttering

The wind bites my cheek
It’s cold-bright lash whipping me
I walk in the sun

The furies watch me
Crawl into the broken shell
Hollow, as the heart

There is no shelter
From their chiding barbs
The Erinyes

My misconceptions
Empty as the barren womb
As the empty tomb

Promises of life
Bathed in spring rain, streaming cold
By the garden, greening

Murmurs of laughter
Bubble, burst in the light
Nonsensical, trite

The creative will
Burning for the deity
In the morning sun

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Of Poetry and Misery

Oh bastion of virtue, portico of romantics, Muse
Make me pure again

Mortal that I am, re-birth me in your golden light
A child of the Furies

My broken feet are bleeding, tired of dragging against time
Driven through the mire

My shell of being, I am weary of seeing, feeling
Still born in still-life

I haunt the static spaces, in the freedom of my dreams
Forgotten, the will to be…be not

Where is the dream now, the promised-land, love and grace
Why now withhold your hand, bar the gate

Oh god of visions, Apollo, poet, you are the sun
The sire of Sisyphus, the wise…the condemned

The good king was right, life is a joke, only the gods are laughing
We are creatures of ridicule

Who am I, what is the meaning of life, where is my purpose?

When can I answer the eternal questions…Why?
Why me? Why you?

Why is the sky blue? Does anything matter…anything at all?
What can knowing do?

Every beating heart, pounds the rhythm of its dreams
We are carried away by them

The Echo of madness leads nowhere, we are lost in the wild

            Drowned in pools of desire, of vanity