Perhaps he Knows

Free at last from your sanity routines,

On mornings when ankle deep slow-flow tendrils

Of mist ebb and trace the shadow-and-not spaces

Between ghost-of-winter honey bark beeches,

(Making lies of histories and your blind surges of truth)

I swear that I have seen

The dark shield-and-faith lord step out

On caparison’d, prancing dapple stallion

To meet dawn’s damson-moon light;

Though only sheep and bitter ‘daws

Now populate the ruined traces of his castle keep

And dragons be lost, with unicorns, in time’s jealous chains.

Perhaps he knows this, perhaps not;

But still he rides out for his people –

As he always did!

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The Madness Rations

With all the delightfully tempting deliberation

Of the sensuous midnight dance, they

Pour their whiskey’d coffee shadows

Into the urban canyon streets.

Honest-to-God light,

As though, silently screaming,

Seeking to escape upwards.

Leaves from ground level,

Now are the panther-hours,

The time of warm-chocolate promises,

Bitter honeys with secret pillows;

The secret language of  darkened doors:

The madness-rations we take

In order to plead sanity.

 

Loki’s Stove

Honey-tongued Loki,
Dark-feather father of
Deceit, mischief and evasion
Has been stokin’ his summer,
Drum –sin, tense-skin stove.
Dry, death-beckon dust,
Recalls the terrible, gong-ring thunder
Of the last Ragnorak
That saddest of conflicts:
Bloody faith turning in
On its own convictions:
Tearing believers to gibbering shells.
High, hold-heaven skies
Understand the difference between
Axeman, innocent and chorister;
Know that shelter is promised to none
And that survival is no guarantee of sanity.

12/7/2013