
12-12-2009, 11:01 PM
((I'm Triple Posting Because It's Such A Long Poem))
"Letters To Him" Pt3
XI. – Sauve Qui Peut
And bugs; the vermin that consume recall,
chomp the remaining brush towering eyes.
Dirt starts muddling just woven carpets hulled
to be stowed. Cream linens unroll good-byes
as they drape the décor. Again, spiders
weave homes in damp corners sucking smiles
from our portraits while caterpillars
spit tapestries covering your idle
eyes peering past wallpaper peels. Do your
clouds still know my form even with her light
shining past all my patches? Those blind, poor
sights haven’t returned repelling my might
to win you. Guess I neglected mountains
of seasons spent beneath twigs by fountains.
XII. – Mal de Siecle
Of seasons spent beneath twigs by fountains
I miss most your mind. I don’t wish to fall
back on changes rolling down the mountain
sides only to clutter your ears from calls
of not so long ago and actually
pretty up close incidents. Piling
the gutters you claim as your halo, please
remember to divulge to your Christ files
paper clipped to the photos once damned. I
relied on the future to counter-act this
past as we astrologically aligned,
but no counting of numbers could stop this.
Your blunt interpretation only lends
this (sod heart parched of leaves at) autumn’s end.
XIII – Savior-faire
This sod heart’s parched of leaves at autumn’s end
so I’ve returned-- but to what? Snow-capped ache?
Frost-nipped words crystallize chapped lips offend-
ing the truth captioned in footnotes. The fate
challenged to us is lost on blue tinged ears.
You threw down the sword long ago, I know,
while I continued for the Grail. Fear
replaced by desperate feet that only go
forward pulsing for that eternal drink,
but forever would not rewrite romances
we depicted. Your scribe’s permanent ink
blotched attempted edits. I quit! What chance
is left? These letters simply prove the end-
your eyes blow winter’s brittle and tossed winds.
XIV. – Bon Voyage
Your eyes blow winter’s brittle and tossed winds
this way; my pen quivers blurred hello’s and
useless good-byes. There’s no stair to transcend;
no fatherly advice to help these hands
blistered and painted to make following
the lines that much easier. But the easel
expressing blue hand printed steps can’t show
the way. I received your prayer book. My soul
was saved the day you offered my secrets
to the bedroom fire pit. Enlightened, I
set new flame to your book-bound ways. Commit
this to false saving waters as I float high
casting a miracle departure. Faint
dust impact severs battered cloth restraints.
XV. Last Letter – Dernier Cri.
Dust impact severs battered cloth restraints;
our papers efflux over walnut courts
so overgrown ivy greens air raid
the passion savored once as pages warp
and crumpled under fingers. Flowers raved
in multihued moss sheets you had debauched
for me -- deliverance of something great
my tealeaves ached. The lacking eager touch
should’ve realized your Eden would fall
between my entries overlooked by pens
and bugs; the vermin that consumes recall
of seasons spent beneath twigs by fountains.
This sod heart’s parched of leaves at autumn’s end.
Your eyes blow winter’s brittle and tossed winds.
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