RunAmokRampant
06-05-2007, 04:19 AM
From the yellow Beach to the yellowing grass
I stress that this is one poem just separated into 3 parts.
i.
The Stars fade like scars in the celestial
Ceiling. The blue hue glows, holding the sun
Above my head as I walk leisurely
Along a dusty road, with flies buzzing
Around my sweaty face, following me
From the beach; I keep an old steady pace.
The sand in my worn leather bound sandals
Has transgressed and traveled from soaring reefs
To the yellowing plains of parched farmland.
ii.
I set the sand free and the dry, crisp wind
Carries it away with leaves from stubborn
Gum-trees, ponderous in gliding descent;
The sand sets in foreign territory
And the formation of dark clouds warns me,
Or mocks us, with distant sounds of thunder
While the sun disappears, retreating in
Our memory of what was once so bright,
And I applaud these theatrics truly.
Earth has set the stage for me to engage
With the rigorous and eternal change,
And I within feel the change with the sand,
Foreign yet familiar, sensations
Like old friends clasping at the sky;
Calling at heavens, calling at mountains
And waiting for an unearthly reply.
The shouting echoes the present silence,
I stand in windswept rain; earthly reply
For a man standing on a dusty road
Turning to mud! The sand is gone, buried
Beyond comprehension of what the scene
Presents, and my eyes wrap around tightly
To remember and cast in memory,
To imagine what has governed my thoughts
Of my existence, else it be vacant
Hollow shells like the ones back at the beach.
Yes, the sea has followed me by the course
Of rainclouds; feels both alive and spectral,
Mystifying and charitable in
This arid, dehydrating, and coarse place.
iii.
The distant mountains and bare paddocks in
The misty foreground, with horses eating
Grass alongside the black bitumen road,
Are translucent, that breathes fog over my eyes
And my senses wane. Is this death?
This lack of a conscious imagining,
This vacancy is familiar of sleep;
And I wake with a start on the roadside.
Gone are the dusty road, rain, and thunder.
Come has this hard blackness that I stand on,
Ugly white lines that stretch infinitely
Up to the horizon. I hear thunder
Again! No, I am dearly mistaken
For the engines of man: a long serpent
With wheels that engrave the earth and exhume
Blackness like the road. It comes out of the
Fog, and I step aside with grass, horses,
And the gum-trees along the fence line,
And I jump over to escape this blackened world
Of oil, gasoline, steel, and exhaust.
I stress that this is one poem just separated into 3 parts.
i.
The Stars fade like scars in the celestial
Ceiling. The blue hue glows, holding the sun
Above my head as I walk leisurely
Along a dusty road, with flies buzzing
Around my sweaty face, following me
From the beach; I keep an old steady pace.
The sand in my worn leather bound sandals
Has transgressed and traveled from soaring reefs
To the yellowing plains of parched farmland.
ii.
I set the sand free and the dry, crisp wind
Carries it away with leaves from stubborn
Gum-trees, ponderous in gliding descent;
The sand sets in foreign territory
And the formation of dark clouds warns me,
Or mocks us, with distant sounds of thunder
While the sun disappears, retreating in
Our memory of what was once so bright,
And I applaud these theatrics truly.
Earth has set the stage for me to engage
With the rigorous and eternal change,
And I within feel the change with the sand,
Foreign yet familiar, sensations
Like old friends clasping at the sky;
Calling at heavens, calling at mountains
And waiting for an unearthly reply.
The shouting echoes the present silence,
I stand in windswept rain; earthly reply
For a man standing on a dusty road
Turning to mud! The sand is gone, buried
Beyond comprehension of what the scene
Presents, and my eyes wrap around tightly
To remember and cast in memory,
To imagine what has governed my thoughts
Of my existence, else it be vacant
Hollow shells like the ones back at the beach.
Yes, the sea has followed me by the course
Of rainclouds; feels both alive and spectral,
Mystifying and charitable in
This arid, dehydrating, and coarse place.
iii.
The distant mountains and bare paddocks in
The misty foreground, with horses eating
Grass alongside the black bitumen road,
Are translucent, that breathes fog over my eyes
And my senses wane. Is this death?
This lack of a conscious imagining,
This vacancy is familiar of sleep;
And I wake with a start on the roadside.
Gone are the dusty road, rain, and thunder.
Come has this hard blackness that I stand on,
Ugly white lines that stretch infinitely
Up to the horizon. I hear thunder
Again! No, I am dearly mistaken
For the engines of man: a long serpent
With wheels that engrave the earth and exhume
Blackness like the road. It comes out of the
Fog, and I step aside with grass, horses,
And the gum-trees along the fence line,
And I jump over to escape this blackened world
Of oil, gasoline, steel, and exhaust.