SKY, WIND, NIGHTFALL
It is true that
endurance
keeps the gods from
contending the visible
To touch the earth
pure in desire
as all aflame
continues—complexity enriched
Tapping rock,
drumming red dirt, ages come & gone
In candlelight
these bandages cannot sulk alone
The impossible is
balanced
at the edge of understanding—
Speaking through a
blade of grass
or a shaft of
sunlight
A book defends the
mind
against the
tyranny of the day
Whose bombs
plastered
across the
morning's eyes?
A different war
reaches the doorstep
of the
dispossessed every hour
Solitude was
invented by my strange, singing scars
Breath holds on by
a silver strand
binding together
dreams and futures—
AS FOR THE DREAM BODY'S CONFISCATION...
yr voice an amulet yr voice the fix of creation
yr voice in slow green hills
yr voice sullen yr voice sudden yr voice flashing back
before yr eyes jogging through memories of dry sand & sea
yr voice the candle's wick yr voice the dish of ice cream in the sun
yr voice boiling eggs on sidewalks of deserted ghost towns
because barking tongues do not walk through drum circles
of the mind without phoning first—
who would believe the poets made it all up
ALL of it!
follow desire & you get there
as yr past lives try lifting all that blood in yr shoes themselves
the last time i caught this voice sneaking
away from industrial fallout
the voices spoke the voices silence
parading as a murder of crows flying south
with cameras in their skulls
i was plugging my metal thumb into sockets of air
just out of reach
sparks in space flung into dead water skies O darkness of night
inside these walls the stories of dead men & their cages
erupt with the world's cold-turkey shoulder
to the wheel of good fortune
spinning
& spinning
& spinning
in reflections
upon space-time's nefarious window sills
through this body of weather temptation startles from dust alone
FORESTS OF VOICES
I'm sitting in a green painted room. It's raining.
I'm surrounded by forests of voices. At the end of the wall
with the door frame flying at half-mast is a street lamp beneath
an oak tree's carcass which has been smoking my eye lashes
since midnight last night. There's fish hooks with worms
dancing at the ends dangling from the marble ceiling.
They glimmer when the sun climbs through the window bringing
all my secret lives to their knees clasping hands at once.
I am tempted to put out the fire in the gaping mouth next to my chair
every time the doorbell rings, which is every time this cardinal
aims a song through the barbs of my rib cage,
picking and twitching at its feathers which are the colour of cicadas
at war with the lies between your ears. A vision of eternity burns out
behind the eyes of javalina sniffing in the kitchen for gooseberries.
Trajectories of our own leaving, swarms of grief, songs possessed
by loss. If you are looking for it, it will find you.
If you are asking of it, it will ask of you. Tick talk goes the clock
as a long lament of bumble bee wrath remarking how we no longer need
images
but new modes of reaching the Nameless. I wouldn't know.
My ears are houses to allegories.
How are you doing?
I'm sitting in a green painted room. It's raining.
I'm surrounded by forests of voices.
Daniel Cyran is the author of RESUSCITATIONS, his first full-length poetry collection. Daniel believes in the human spirit and the capacity therein to create goodness. His work can be found on the web: https://www.starkandsaintredwood.com/
Fabulous!, Daniel!!
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