downshank

a poet is nearly damned
for attempting to wrench unspeakable truths
out of the aether

the things that lie dark and hidden
in winter's heart

beneath the woodsmoke
and cinders

beneath the twinkling icicles on the Christmas tree
which sparkle in the darkly colored lights that flash

beneath the dandelions and lilacs perfume on the breeze

beneath the smiles of the trees in the forests tall
whispering to the evergreens and mossy stones

beneath the laughing brook running through the marshlands
and the slender reeds which keep the bullfrog company

beneath the cool pillow and pierzyna you sleep under
that wraps one almost as close as a grandfather's smile or a mother's arms

beneath the laud, the flying pennants, and roaring crowds

beneath the broken concrete, the stale exhaust fumes, the rushing trains

beneath the lonely hours...the reddened eyes that stare into a winter night
that mocks Currier & Ives with its slush and wet shoes and tired hearts
with broken spirits that do not understand the dark currents of this life...and never will

beneath the in-between hours of empty kitchen counters that watch open sinks
while a television channels dead air into the conundrum of a Sunday afternoon

beneath the mosaic of cracked art exhibits in major metropolitan aisles...the jaded skewers that drink toasted grains and replace their faith in God with yoga and trendy bars


but at least we hear the echoes...