Find a Song

Find a Song

The broad boulevard of the people decorated, festooned
As if a jungle In neglect could bloom such ideas.

Weeding the flim flam and dross we came up dripping wet

With birth songs of a far shore

So shining white as if clouds had landed,

Bringing the Sun down to obliterate all language.

We are back to counting peas on the abacus and tracking the moon

By shadowy figures pulling carts and planting gold with the dead.

We practiced on cats, moved to femurs and autopsies in a call for

The same shortcut of knowledge- direct to freedom, to liberation,

Achievement of ourselves.

Us, the ones stringing straw together, fixing roofs with twine and sod,

Letting the Animals feed.

We are bred from such a stock of darkness

That the mind’s earth has become solid stone,

Black basalt and marble that we crush for gravel,

For decoration, music and jewels.

We are crushed blue as babies,

High as the sky that came down once on the far shore

To lean rain and blowing fields of cane and the

Thresher we pull is full, the barrel we lay is round, the song we sing is Sun.

Down below ambition and progress, the soil is turned over by upheaval,

Or slowly layered by all that settles, at once, or over time, sinking as a memory,

A lost chance, a dim symphony of coming before the raffle to eyeball the prizes

And assess the stage for her song.

Rolf's Poems and Pictures