Some of The Ropes and Chains

Image result for image storm

Every storm has a quiet cradle:

A cell in which I can sit with myself and my shadow;

Rain and wind are doubtless a-coming

But before the tempest noise stirs

We get to read between such lines as we can see.

I look through my own eyes – in these moments –

And into my own eyes, seeing beyond, behind.

We’ve started some big fires to get here,

Jumped into and over others, it’s true

And, after this latest hurricane has

Passed and done some damage

We’ll enjoy a summer garden again.

Yet I cannot escape the feeling that I’ve

Let go of some of the ropes and chains

That have anchored  me

To the valuable past.

And it frightens me.

 

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Such A Storm … NaPoriMo, day 26.

Such a storm is brewing

That will shake the faith of priests,

Move mountains, leave

Devastation’s awe behind.

See the unholy bruise-glow pressure

Build over the Marches, the

Shark bellied cloud roil and

Press on new-leaved oaks.

Such a tempest will first be hot, dry,

Then by degree cold and soul-deep damp;

Whose winds will lift thatch, the wings of ravens

That perch on funeral long-ship sails.

There will be crackle-snake lightnings

That lick the belladonna crevasses of nimbus,

Bend the prayers of fearful mortals and

resound  down the throats of

All the Hells that have ever been.

Such gales that will shift landmarks, so that

New dawn locals stupefied and stunned by the clamour

And new landscape will be witless:

“Where is the henge?”

“Where the mill?”

Roads will be sundered,

Valleys filled with split rocks and earth

As the very hills seek to fill up the cave – ears.

Nothing will be as it was;

Points will have been made,

The unworthy reduced to gibbering wrecks

(Aren’t we all, anyway,

Just the fifty shades of clay?)

Those that stand staunch, resolute,

Through what is approaching, as if

From the deranged cells of

Twisted-by-jealousy Heracles’ mind

Will deserve their places

On the pantheon.