A lament for the madness–Days of grass

Days of grass

These are the days of hollow eyes walking
in hallowed towers with watching turrets,
of pink petunias on bullet-hole balconies
of long blue kisses and air-to-air missiles.

These are the days of withering grass,
weeping thistle and wailing willow, 
staggering lupines on pesticide paths
and brown winds blowing over plastic islands.

These are days of treaties torn
by shrivelled souls in vaulted chambers.
Of brand-chocked brains and anal refrains
of mannequin minds in public office.

These are days of the corporate booster,
of social capital for the multinational,
a million for the children’s hospital,
and poison for the neighbour’s dog.

These are the days of distant song birds
of addled frogs in strange valleys,
of Arctic blues in long larval nights,
lost monarchs and the last burrowing owl.

Now are the days of sun storms and drought,
nuclear floods, electronic plagues,
genocidal hate and supremacist rage
down at the schoolyard shooting range.

These are the days of socialization
by pistol and penis and Phi Beta hazing, 
recreational fury of the self quarantined
and homicidal tyranny by touch screen.

These are the days of gorge and binge,
of hyper-cooled air for fashionable skin,
and skinny patios that bubble with heat
on tailing ponds under fey-fecal skies.

These are the hurried days
of the accelerated phrase,
and the acronymic end
to all discourse.

And these are the children of healing
who run for sweet-clover hills, and live,
still, for the music of whippoorwills,
in these dying days of grass.

4 Comments

  1. I don’t know where all the beautiful, yet haunting, words come from Stephen. I am intrigued and somewhat puzzed by the schizophrenic nature of this poem.

    But I love this ending and wish that all of us would find these children of healing:

    “And these are the children of healing
    who run for sweet-clover hills, and live,
    still, for the music of whippoorwills,
    in these dying days of grass.”

    Tonight I came home to swirls of common nighthawks feeding and fueling up for their migration. We haven’t hit the dying days of grass since we have had so much rain, but the birds know it is time to move on and bring their beautiful flight patterns and songs to others for awhile.

  2. Thank you Diane. I suspect the poem’s schizophrenia pales to that of the daily newspaper. I was aiming for a lament in the spirit of the Psalms or Jeremiah. Thank you again, and thanks for the swirling nighthawks. Lovely.

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