03-08-2021, 01:04 AM
(This post was last modified: 03-08-2021, 01:10 AM by TranquillityBase.)
thanks for the read and the comments. I'm afraid I can't give up my heavy handedness. In this case, it's scripture. I did change "misunderstood monster" to "misunderstood angel" since I'm talking about the Angel of Death. (This has nothing to do with the poem but dammit, I joined a forum to talk to people: Supposedly the Angel of Death complained to God about his job And God said "don't worry, they will blame everything but you")
Also tinkered with the Comanches. "Made all the way from China" is a deliberate mash up of Made in China and came all the way from China.
hoping for some more responses but whenever, i'll post edited version.
The wind at Lometa is always blowing
off the northern plains
or south from the Gulf.
Yesterday it was blowing northeast across traces
winter worn footsteps of your passage:
your charcoal pit, the gardens you started around the cabin
a far flung empire of guava outposts
now burnt yellow like cabins raided by Comanches
the grove of oaks we cleared of cedar and brush
and the chipper,
now wrapped in torn plastic tarps
huddled under a Spanish oak on the ridge,
made all the way from China:
we unboxed, reconstructed
and brought roaring to life
that orange metal beast
to make your dreamland mulch.
Here in this eleventh month since that misunderstood angel
took you away from where I knew you
I remember you here
dreaming of future works and days:
growing hemp, raising goats.
Your passage was brief
but I was here to witness it
and like any apostle
I must testify.
Also tinkered with the Comanches. "Made all the way from China" is a deliberate mash up of Made in China and came all the way from China.
hoping for some more responses but whenever, i'll post edited version.
The wind at Lometa is always blowing
off the northern plains
or south from the Gulf.
Yesterday it was blowing northeast across traces
winter worn footsteps of your passage:
your charcoal pit, the gardens you started around the cabin
a far flung empire of guava outposts
now burnt yellow like cabins raided by Comanches
the grove of oaks we cleared of cedar and brush
and the chipper,
now wrapped in torn plastic tarps
huddled under a Spanish oak on the ridge,
made all the way from China:
we unboxed, reconstructed
and brought roaring to life
that orange metal beast
to make your dreamland mulch.
Here in this eleventh month since that misunderstood angel
took you away from where I knew you
I remember you here
dreaming of future works and days:
growing hemp, raising goats.
Your passage was brief
but I was here to witness it
and like any apostle
I must testify.