Hard winter rain in nightmare forest.
Unnatural light glows amid bent trees. Strange,
hanging curtains of feculent moss buffeted by
wind gusts, prehistoric reptile wings. Rain forced
buds burst from leaf storm mulch.
walking
home,
forced
solitude
ends
Outside the disused church,
windblown trees scratch against stone.
Scraping the cracked stained glass where
the moon’s last light resides.
Dreaming
of finches
a yellow
feather
on a pew
Wind in pipe organ tubes. Bird’s
nests disturbed. Spider’s webs.
Occasional
off-key notes: ghost trios, songs without
words, keyboards without hands.
Interior
with
dream
light
dust bowl
chalice
The rain is filled with dreams where
the birds should be. Chimney
swifts and barn
swallows inhabit all the blank spaces behind
my eyes. As morning clears away
all the debris
the night has left behind, I feel my face and
wonder where all the features have gone.
Reflections
in
a puddle-
my life
recedes
Sandhill cranes against a blood red
sky are moving objects in a still life dream.
Black paint smears are tree sprouts, twigs of
life pushing through canvas tears.
New growth
is stretched as thin as wire string music is
made on.
Bird
cries-dissonance with wings
Alan Catlin has been publishing fort he better part of six decades. His most recent full length books include Memories Too (Dos Madres) and The Road to perdition (Alien Buddha).
No comments:
Post a Comment