Poem

phishgod

Poem

Another gray
day, like
clouds off
the far
Atlantic, my
lost heart
waiting for
some inspiration
to come
knockin’ by
my door,
the more
I look,
the less
I find,
and clouds
swallow me
up like
raw meat
before the
coming storm,
and I
am not
alone, for
all are
one this
gray day
of sameness
which wastes
over all,
but some
more alone
than others,
and each
alone the
end, and
to what
noble purpose
these words
to describe,
as blue
fingers interlace
the gray,
and wind
chases clouds
away like
angry songs
the slaughtered
swarms of
night: “Thousands
Die—Rwanda”,
“Three Murdered:
Robbery Massacre”,
“Serbs Shell
Village—13
Children Die”,
“Abortion Doctor
Murdered”, “Rape
Victim Struggles—
Dies”, “Teen
Shoots Self,
Friends Watch
Russian Roulette”,
“German Shepherd
Set Afire”,
and how
can I
not despair,
or seek
my own
uncertain angel—
a patch
of blue,
to call
mine, even
if but
for a
single moment?

The madness
stalks our
gray dawn,
slivers of
death crawl
about us
like cannibals,
to suck
the wasted
flesh stripped
from skeletons
the living
nightmare all
around us,
and how
could I
not want
to know
your angelic
soul, a
patch of
blue, a
gentle patch
of blue,
the gray
cloud day
or our
aloneness,
as evil
stalks like
a bitter
moon its
harvest of
uncertainty at
what awaits
the ‘morrow?

Yet you
were not
there for
me, again,
that I
could bask
your glow
like a
lizard warming
in luxuriant
sun the
warmth of
noon, and
all is
gray, all
is gray—
no patch
of blue
to be
found, today.

And the
madness only
continues all
around us,
and we
are each:
alone.

--May 1, 1994
@pth