Crossing the bus station, in the
cooling light of six o’clock, amid
people leaving work and
careening into chaos, I am
suddenly overcome with
uncharacteristic tenderness.
A man, tall and shaggy as
a mountain covered in fir trees,
is watching his hands as he
cups the offering of a milky
ice cream cone so gently,
the way tree branches must
hold birds whose wings are
still too small for the sky.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
I visit my therapy horse once a week.
Loquat soup, badger prey.
Wipe them down with iodine.
Fawn corral, porch render, wardrobe blood.
Our intimate bubble island.
What they refer to as temptation bundling.
Daisy chains for sale.
You’re a something burger.
Shutterstock thrills, banister motif, creek ballots.
We unpack our elegance armor.
Is emptiness a placeholder?
Competitive landscapes, distilled manifestos.
The streams are disappearing.
How we find ourselves in metaphor quandaries.
Poppy icing, hair weapon, chubby rain.
The delicate trumpets have arrived.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
The Sibyl asked…
What happens in the sheer
silence
of our broken mouths and
unheard songs?
What happens in the sharp
lacunae
when our voices and rhythms have
gone?
Is this how Nature exalts itself?
How fashion and form are
figured in things?
By the hard closed fist and petty
proclamation
of some pale geometric Kings?
What will happen to our sacred
names and our hieroglyphs,
and the winter games in the
dark?
What will happen to our fallen
totems and theologies,
painted above in the stars?
Is this how the footnotes of
history are taken
or the broken objects of culture
forsaken?
On the dull iron shields and unbalanced
scales
of the men of the Platonic God?
Is law the language of
creation, Oracle,
or is language the creation of
law?
The Oracle answered…
When the first sharp shot
whizzed past your head,
did you mark the morals of the
one with the gun,
or doubt his righteous intent?
When you saw the vapid god in
his eyes,
did you build barricades behind
paving stones,
or push burnt-out cars with your
broken bones?
Did you block up the doors to
the hiding places
where you’d collected your songs
and your father’s seeds,
and the poems that were written
with undrowned hands
long ago on your grandmother’s
beach?
But when the King my brother
and his riot squad
come goose-stepping down your
street,
they will wrest away your silent
places, and fire your privacies.
They will break down your
symbols and still your lives,
as they move to set things Right
in the name of their fatal Father,
with his ether, his rum and his
razorblades,
and his Son’s ill-burning light.
the Tuesday poem is curated by
rob mclennan