Screaming into the open air until My throat is torn and still Screaming up the bloody hunks Hoping that having to stop and Scrape some part of me off of their faces will Make them pause long enough to look at The world they are helping make Tinted red by something not a sunset And stop in horror at how the hue Ruins all the views they had thought to have
Oh, no, there’s no metaphor here; why would you think so? Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com
They do not listen Of course And why should they when They bathe so gladly Drink so deeply Of the wine of which I am a fountain But one more small faucet pouring out upon them And stay drunk on the spirits they ingest ?
When the time comes that They must sober up And they see what covers them And the long line of those who Wounded Have yielded it Who will then have the axe in hand And swing it one more time?
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I had been hoping to hear Wilson, Ballard, and McGlown Harmonize over sweet horn-work But I am stuck with lesser writers than they had Who pen far poorer songs for singers who should Not so much as audition for the frogs’ parts Or the crows’
There can’t be any deeper meaning here, can there? Photo by Sami Aksu on Pexels.com
The latter Of course Got many auditions And are amply cast Richly costumed And if there are a few who play the ravens’ parts Thought and memory perching on the shoulders of the mighty Whispering what is needful to hear There are more who croak out corpse-breath with glee Before bending their beaks to feast again
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Last week It was clear that Notus Servant of Aeolus and son of Astraeus Stopped off for a bite to eat along the way
Oh, yes! One of many images of good eating from a Hill Country restaurant, used here for commentary
He had the migas plate I am sure Possibly the chilaquiles Definitely several cups of coffee Maybe another side of refrieds or Extra el charro Which he shared with us only later If in abundance
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Who finds that affliction must measure steps well Goes halting forward when called to proceed Sometimes wincing at the feeling of it
The touch of one well loved kneading Rump roasted in another oven long before Rewards with relief the one who relishes it Chastely but nearly enough to not
The one who seeks for wisdom Whose insight is surpassing That one will be able to say what it is
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She sprayed from where her tufts parted Soaking who stared up at the show And showering many with her gifts Openly displayed in the daytime no less than Shared in the evening and the night
I’m sure there’s some connection… Photo by Gareth Davies on Pexels.com
But now she suffers no touch And those who looked on are left Hot and humid amid swelling hills Damp despite the distance from the depths they would seek And that wetness they desire Is held above their heads Taunting and teasing Doing nobody a damned bit of good
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Melkor amid the Ainur’s music Striving to drown out all the others And I am but one voice among the many Not so loud as might be found Never so sonorant and rarely a soloist No soaring tenor nor throbbing bass And soprano only in distress
There is no Eru to lift up hands and fear-making face Silencing the cacophony and ending both the Song and its despite So I can but carry my tune Even if the bucket is leaky and its handle cracks While the bleating brays on beating out a tattoo unceasing In its unimaginative dissonance and guttural refrain
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Why should I not delight to live In these fair lands where Aestas has long residence Working her artistry day after day? It is not to the artist’s blame that The audience shrivels and withers before the intensity of her performance Snails or slugs bestrewn with salt cast from where she prompts sweat
Though descended from hardy men I am not a hardy man Have not the stamina that I once did And even that was not so much But that fault is mine if fault it is And problem mine if it is no fault Though I confess to seeking faults and wallowing in them
Even so feeble and fast-falling as I am I take some small joy in seeing the dance she does Dwelling here so long as she does Kindly and in force here as in few other places Even if it is not for me that she will dance Or not only for me And others gyrate more fully and freely than I have ever done At her mere approach and in her long duration Taking their time as she with them until she Satisfied that she has done enough Moves on Only to come back again As those who sit before this stage of hers Bound by brush among gnarling woods upthrusting Know will happen And mostly when– Though she visits at odd times between
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Oh, I am not immune to that demand
That Stupid God has called across the land,
From stony shore to balmy beach of sand,
From water’s side to high and snow-clad peak!
I often find myself compelled to seek
Some idle pastime through which that god wreaks
The ruin of the mind. I make me numb,
An infantile sucking on the thumb
Or sitting thereupon to depths self-plumb.
Yet while too many find their joy in such,
I linger in that hateful fear: too much
Of any joy will blunt the future touch
Of better happiness that can be found–
At least as much of it as is around.
Good job, yeah! Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com
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Why is this the thing that shocks you so
The one at which you mean to draw a line
And sever yourself from the greater godly body
In which you were raised
To which you pledged yourself
And not the lie that you enact by
Pushing yourself away from it
And it from you?
Is it not a sin to lie?
Yet you expect to be forgiven
And to remain among the body of the elect
While working so very, very hard
To keep others out of it
I think it’s pretty. Photo by Alexander Grey on Pexels.com
Why is this the thing that shocks you so
The forbidden deed among forbidden deeds
The unpardonable event that must be set aside
Or must be set aside.
Because it is commanded that it not be done
And that those who do it find opprobrium
And not the marks made in flesh and marring of it
And not keeping the gleanings of the harvest
Or the fruits from the edges of the fields
And not the mistreatment of strangers in the land
And not adultery
Which is one of the larger among
Thou shalt not
Set in stone on courthouse steps as a movie’s marketing maneuver
A politician’s campaign ploy?
Are they less forbidden?
Yet they who do them
Again and again
And gladly
Those get welcomed in and celebrated
While others would be left to languish
Why is this the thing that shocks you so
The one you claim cannot be forgiven
That merits castigation, condemnation
And not the killing of another person
Something many claim that they would do again
Given similar circumstances
And not when someone else is creeping into their home at night
Which might well be excused
But in the homes of others
Unwelcome on their lands
And for no real purpose save to be there?
Is it not a sin to kill?
And yet many do more than fail to repent
Who are kept among the congregation gladly
Why is this the thing that shocks you so
Demands of you that you rise up in anger
Giving voice to hatred
Giving hands to violence all too often
You who claim to hold as your lord and teacher
One who often abjured violence
Who said who lives by the sword will die by it
Who said who calls another a fool is in danger of damnation
Who said not to resist evil
Who said to turn the other cheek
Who said to give more to those who ask of you than they ask
Who said to take the beam from your own eye before worrying what is in another’s
Who said to cut yourself down to keep yourself from sinning rather than to cut another down
When you will welcome back among you
Even praise
Who flout the two true commandments
Proudly
Who offer up not even a mumbled apology
Let alone burnt gifts of atonement
Or efforts to make real change in themselves
And whose actions bespeak praise for Mammon?
It doesn’t seem right, does it?
It shouldn’t
But you still do it
Over and over and over again
Unrepentantly
And demanding to have a house that is not yours
Be as you would have it
Shutting out those who have too often been in the cold
Who harming none have suffered harm
Why is
This
The thing that shocks you so?
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A year later Lives later Daughters and sons Sisters and brothers Mothers and fathers Cousins, aunts, uncles Gone away now Not dust in the wind but Mesquite leaves beaten down by Hailstones falling all too quickly All too often
Those who might build shelters from the storm Take up their hammers and their Phillips-heads indeed But what do they seek to pound on and screw While some new La Llorona festers gestating Ready to be born into a world made wet with obscene dripping
She will scream as she is born And her own mother will scream Again and again And it may be that we have already heard the pangs of her birth Ringing in a tritone over Smaller cries silenced too swiftly
Elliott RWI 