Gathering

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(Exodus by Darko Birsa.  Slovenia, Painting, oil.)

It was the harvest,

yet, we were starving.

Even the baby’s snores

scattered.

A bent mink cloth,

a dilapidated gaze,

gold-plated skin of paint peeling the

splendors of war,

still rattling,

in the secular breeze.

Able,

we had nothing

left except the plain,

non-commital

lux

of blown-out museums and

bereft shopping malls.

I turned to hear the sound

of tortured faces

centering in the town square.

A diaspora had ended

amongst the ruins.

Never,

not ever,

would I forget

the paradox.

This was inspired by The Sunday Whirl as well as this story http:// http://m.motherjones.com/politics/2014/11/syria-war-assad-starvation-hunger I read earlier on Twitter.

Also linked to dVerse Open Link Night, and Poets United.

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The Circle

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It is a scream
I cannot let leave
my soul
until the last stone
is thrown.

I do not believe
in revenge,
so I swim
to the thermocline with
songs of prophets
and stacks of
old newspapers.

Kindness feels
more destructive
than cruelty.

Healing is often
tectonic.

Ancestors burned
pathos and verse
into cave walls
until all cocoons were
mere fables,
until I was
echoed by
guardian angels,
until God wept
the somber
glow
of every living thing.

Copyright 2014

Alamogordo

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(For Susan, Timothy, Sharon, and Steven)

At each phrase,
a gilt,
almost baptismal,
the way
wasps burn
ololiuqui moths
gold.

Before her death,
my grandmother gave me
a turquoise ring,
translating me
unrecognizable.

The advancement of those stars
were never meant
to be deciphered.

In the etched hieroglyphs
of humanity’s dead heroes,
some fated coincidence
collapses the ecliptic,
Oceana shrieking the
parable
of God’s eye.

Copyright 2014