Saturday, October 11, 2014

3 POEMS draft


She said, become the antelope
In the first days, in the very first days,
Purple and magenta were one thing.
Purple and animals were one thing 
but the antelope were strange people.
The young men, they who first saw the antelope, 
they fell in love, 
they fell from a great height.
They fell from grace 
and sanity fled on spindly legs,
Antelope, part wind, part bird,
They raced across the plains
I left I felt my face become long 
with shadows and lightning, 
the wind washing my body
and the birds, they sang of distant places.
They called to me, a siren call, 
irresistible magic.
It was the best of times
It was the worst of times
It was a time of wind and sorrow, 
and madness was a flower 
on the plains of forgetfulness.

Prathro's workshop

The egret lifts its fans 
nuptial plumes, 
feathers of snow 
among the toyon berries, 
white to red, sine curve of neck, 
impossible doubled back on time, 
an eye of paleness, 
tender leaves 
a beak inside the sun of fire.

Prathro's workshop

I should be going to workshops
I should be taking photos
But I'm so very tired of people, 
of being on, I was stepping in 
and out of people's lives and rooms.
It's Sunday morning, 
is the freeway never quiet?
I miss the days of stillness and solitude, 
where the mechanical world 
wasn't ever present.
Generations have grown up 
with this industrial noise of progress.

Prathro's workshop

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