 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
Poetry - Selections from The White Crow v1, i4 - Osric Publishing
(More poetry from available in the print version of The White Crow v.1, i.4, available for $2.00 ppd from Osric Publishing. What a deal!)
Museum Alone
I
So many souls standing out against
what looks like meticulously barren walls.
Spotless, seamless white and soft white light.
Great care has been taken to bring to the fore
the majesty of oil ejaculations
and always the cool embrace of alabaster
or marble
Watch where you walk
for you are in the presence of gods whose hands
lay before your eyes what they have seen in sight beyond sight.
Show your reverence with silent contemplation.
Even the vaulted ceilings with their gilded lilies
command a personal quietude which endures
days after the eyes pass casually over them
The healers of many tribes and clans
have assembled here for the ceremony
to speak in shades of understanding
and textures of belief.
II
When the Mongol hordes clothed the coming day in blood
their prey never suspected
that one day their progeny's progeny's descendants would peer
into a Plexiglas cube and marvel
at the apparent effectiveness of such rudimentary weaponry
When the captain of the slave ship crushed a village,
driving the beasts he had come to acquire out of Mother Africa's womb,
did he ever imagine
his great-great-grandchildren smiling
before a pedestalled figurine from Ethiopia,
their far distant white blood forgotten
but not gone?
When the hunger for all things gold drove the Iberians
across the months of uncharted sea
up to the very doorstep of the bloodstained Sun God,
who among them saw a future in which their descendant's handicraft
would take its rightful place in large, quite buildings
with one or two corners set aside
for the visionaries among the oppressed?
III
If only eyes could listen,
hands hear,
minds unclench frustration's fists,
would we finally in this museum
become the we that is all humanity?
Do we dare
set aside history for one moment to recognize
within our own lives
inconsistencies in logic and action?
Dare we attempt such speculation
in the quiet corners of museums and discover
that what seems to be the case
is perhaps not so timeless as we would like to believe?
I close my eyes
and echoes of wars and loves and cathartic release
dance somewhere between memory and dream.
For me war is unreal, love is but vague speculation,
release feels like love and war should,
and my contribution may not last the length of my life
but I heal myself daily
try to find a better way to make my presence felt,
try to echo in my offspring's very being
with the resonance of the loving war,
the artifacts of peaceful hatred.
- keith battle
flat white flowers
what will happen to the flat white flowers in the field beyond reaching up towards the sun? - Michael Estabrook
His Closest Advisor
But the word
'mistress'
is whispered
hushed
on streets
and in
kitchens.
She knows this
and as her
beauty
dies
she speaks
in tongues
of cruel
design,
sentences them
each
to her fate.
In time
they will paint her
portrait
as Venus
naked
to the heart.
- C. C. Russell
wine country
this house
on beecher street
my wife stoned
in the upstairs bedroom
my hands
buried in the dirt
pulling weeds
from the garden
i've got a short list
of people i'd like to see
dead
i add new names every day
my wife smiles
when the pills let her
looks at me fondly
we travel on the weekends
slow trips up north
through wine country
we have neighbors
we don't know
and i write down their names
for future reference
i keep my arms
wrist-deep
in the damp soil
my thoughts wander
too much
my wife upstairs
with a noose
around her neck
the sun hot
on my back and shoulders
i should cut her down
soon
i should laugh more often
it's on my list of things
i regret not doing
- john sweet
Published 1995. Crowright 2000 Osric Publishing. Last updated 07.02.2000