Poems: 030521 - May 3rd, 2021

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Robert Morpheal

May 3, 2021, 12:47:54 AM5/3/21

These are grim days
of the occasional
species of habit
that covers the bones.

Our conversations rattle
the way old trains rattle
secretly wishing
they could go off the rails.

We tend to avoid
making break throughs
in our careful respect
for fences and walls.

Secrets made of wanting
something wild open
and being seized by forests
encroaching field paths.

Looking down into history
it is harder to understand
any of the freedoms
held by past generations.

The modern claims
as to progressive privilege
and belief in moving forward
being a prevalent myth.

We are travellers
routinely hijacked
to a different destination
and convinced it is better.

The cattle car conveyances
crowded with humanity
are loud with the sounds
speaking in Slogan.

Eventually they all get off
on something
that they are supposed to
get off on.

A few of us keep going
to different destinations
a long way down
beyond the last station.



They are always breaking free
and we are on missions
that take no prisoners.

It is going nowhere
but they say it is headed out
to being on the run.

It has been cold so long
we all fear decay
if there is a sign of thaw.

Hearts are frozen
until they are freezer burn
and throw away.

A drumming goes on
beating litanies
of bones and skins.

It will be explained
in sealed orders
saying all goes as planned.

Nothing opened up
when the troops went over
the top of that rise.

Kept out of touch
and stripped of feelings
coming down that other side.

They kick at the empties
rattling spent rounds
and being staggered by shots.

Someone might fall
into seas of sudden laughter
having been slowly drowned.



How do we know
anything of what is
shoved in between
our collected beliefs
about before and after.

We try to salvage
something lasting
by prying it free
and trying to assure
places of safety.

Our wanting so much
to leave something
somewhere behind
that might be preserved
rather than destroyed.

That something
that might actually last
longer than any traces
left by what we were
when passing through.

Past all the leaving
that time and place bring
as if the shape of things
might banish forgetting
for a few moments.

The usual something
that seemed unimportant
in being a trinket
bit of nearly trashed
turned unlikely treasure.

We wanted that
but finding it forbidden
tried to give it away
to something else
as if that might save us.



Looking back
is such a long way
so full of cravings
and silent answers
to lost questions.

What then happens
standing at the end
of a long stretched line
with no one behind you
and looking back.

Solo performances
have become the rule
rather than the exception
but one can pick a piece
and keep playing with it.

There was no finding
what one came for
feeling what was inside
has long gone out
into various extinctions.

It was not wanted
all that much
and the mind is an ant
trying to move sand dunes
for the sake of uncovering.

The candle wax drippings
suggestive of futures
that can never happen
even if for no other reason
than being foretold there.

The social values
of both art and food
continually revised to being
whatever one does
while remaining alone.

Either that or inclined
to unpleasant absolutes
and forced juxtapositions
against what would satisfy
the remains of the senses
exiting brainwash stations.

We cannot rule out
anything that is unlikely
being impossible
in these heaved over lands
splattered with miracles.

The examples of providence
being so exceptional
in what is shown off
by someone else chosen
to convince everyone else.

There is the laughter
that typically greets
any of the asking
being something more
that can be denied.

So many different ways
to becoming the same
and angry beggars
who can never get
what they really came for.

It is a continual process
emphatic of defeat
that must keep secret
everything that is wrong
with how it all plays out.



It becomes more difficult
to tease out the strands
that are our own mistakes
from those of others
where the past has changed
into no more
than our own make believe.

We believed that we knew
the various characters
cartooned into history books
only to realize we did not
know them at all
and that they are redrawn
to suit new audiences.

The rough sketches
of what passed as history
scribbled over
with rude comments
being written in
to fill up the white spaces
in the blackening out.

They and we are no longer
anything permissible
and all of the processes
as to how we were once made
into who we seemed to be
being made dissimilar
to new definitions of making.

They are no longer
the people we thought of
as being who they were
but have separated
from being written up
in old volumes
now continually revised.

Nothing is made
in the same way that it was
enabling the long dead
to be reborn in long past lives
as someone different
to how they used to be
long talked about.

Forget the prevailing rumours
because they are replaced
by entirely new ones
that need to be passed on
in the persistent signalling
between ivory towers
and those repainted too.



The easiest thing
is to sit down and cry
without knowing
the slightest reason.

You really know
a reason will be provided
after the fact of knowing
the world is that way.

There is the tiniest flower
concealed amid grasses
and there are whole worlds
that are flowering.



Early Spring is yellows
being various cautions
flagging down with warnings
about heading off
in different directions
into new adventures.

Imagining excitement
into the swellings
that burst exuberant
somewhere in the nights
of performing
countless routines.

Are we too only habits
that we cultivated
and some being seasonal
round robins
at the same old games
forever being played.

A season playing out
lesser and greater urges
into common villainies
in behind orchards
gone extreme with fragrant
colours of blossoming.

Blessings of Sun kings
upon maiden cheeks
everything blushing
at a portion of the year
that mobilizes its legions
into their embarrassments.

Time is a succession
counting out
lesser and greater things
sweeping shadow hands
around shifting circuit
chase of hedgerows.

It is a time of earth
soaking up sky
making up afflictions
that are stray wildness
into absent minded
and spirited imaginings.

All that going forth
takes the field
flooding across landscapes
wind ripples of breaths
caressing shudders
of every coming alive.


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