#really needs work

[ghostmoons]

#28

i think that the man selling apples

or the woman with cramped,

needle pricked fingers

know.

they return home,

bones soft as they make their meals.

escape to other

worlds

in slumber and even embrace.

and then they wake up

with the sun

just to return again

to the Moloch who grinds down their

bodies.

they know about the untouchable

green grass just past outstretched arms

and know what is behind batons and sirens.

no longer longing.

whilst the man in the

panopticon

smokes his money in a big pipe.

but they know also

how towers can fall and how rivers are reborn

if they simply remind themselves

again.

[bluemonkwrites]

Before Lent

Ash Wednesday this year will be mountains cold. Already I am ready for a rest from the lie of false beauty which is sold by those who ride copters to Everest.

Sleet sheets the roof: a drone for each ever, a pouring of sand on all the lost. Already I have forgotten the summer and cling to the bleak residue of cost

as if there will always be tomorrow. Lent is not the yearly attempt to break habits which hinder our quest to follow the gods of our bodies, but to awake

light we crucified trying to be strong. Thus may ashes and fire hold us long.

This is the result of an exercise I worked through yesterday. It is in a book I’m reading titled, Poetry as Spiritual Practice, by Robert McDowell.