Walpurgis Night

Walpurgis Night

Diaspora of the valuable, suffused now everywhere with hands and eyes,

high and low roving.

A gang of the good well armed for holy change.

Dollars and scent of camphor and incense, incest and clubbings.

The night is young, rabid, full of invigorated torment and release.

Walpurgis night of gremlins and fog,

remote corners and filthy hideouts,

spray paint and documentation for an apocalypse.

Birth of sensitive souls calling out a merciful wisdom,

a temper sublime, sure, all powerful, forgiving, available always to each.

Time of need, pain, hunger, a visitation of the cooling water,

a soul sure to shine, be all and the one finally to suffer our surfeit of deeds

in a world requiring, exploring all of the ways we can be fed.

A great growl of the people, the beast, the hands held gloomy and sweating,

anxious around the table.

Thank God for the age of reason as quaint ideas

of inculcated incubi in souls green as leaves are

but the bugs crawling, the feelings hurt,

the potential as yet unrealized.

Gaps for later sojourners burning down the rainforest for beef.

Filling and falling in the sea.

A hero is a news figure.

A savior, the first responder on the scene.

Mayhem, bedlam, consequence and fire require some time alone to think,

maybe “out in nature”.

Her burly tree trunk arms and vegetarian, sex based lifestyle for the season.

Stay as we will for this is not a rant of negation, more a statement of purpose

Blue and cold baby

Covers thrown, fever up

Water ice and hammer blow.

Sewing in the next room, hems, cuffs and collars,

Damaged goods., bruised skin of the banana.

High holy days of rest and contemplation, community and forbearance.

Temperance can never get us.

Some other demon owns the land.

Take up arms.

Black and blue the square of sky through the hole in the ceiling.

All prisoners counting out, lining up, ready for anything and again a day they say when nothing happens.

Hold your fire, gainsay that the suffuse breezes of pink dawn and clumsy feeling,

the break of beetles from the dung,

the path of ants up and down the wall,

this is enough, you and me and all the being chains of our freedom

nesting as ever on the shoulder,

in the grind between our temples,

on the page,

bleeding from the ear on the pillow.

Wake again and something may be wrong with me.

Think about it. Put it off.

The rain loosens the wainscoting, the clogs,

the unpicked garbage,

the swirls of cycling plastic convecting in the warming sea.

It washes at our feet.

Leaves our heads with a slave rag and an ice cream,

some balm for hot throats,

some message ensnared as would be lovers spar.

The next movement of our symphony to begin shortly.

All ticket holders deftly file to places,

A great curtain of the world is laid to our breathing hour,

Our compassion clipped crisp as daisies is enough to see us through, holding hands.

Each other, dark storms known as low pressure cells. “We need the rain”.

Translations of thunder,

underscores of lived reality,

poverty of imagination still able to sum it all,

produce in my head a facsimile,

not of course how it “really is”.

Dog view, hawk.

Silence is useful for the movement of the concerto.

Space has no air to move the ear to hear.

We have to bring our own noise.

Land on a dusty world or dark tavern with a corner booth.

Two frosty beers in a mug.

What do you make of the show,

our plans,

some chance of love for who you are,

who I am,

damaged, obtuse,

on to breakfast, sausage, eggs, sunshine.

Cats asleep.

Fish in bowls,

Whole forests a twitter with bugs and birds and deer ears alert,

Tasting air and noses knowing grass.

Rolf's Poems and Pictures

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