Though soldier may not slay
What yesterday he slew,
Today still may betray
What yesterday betrew.
No needle now can sew
A seed unusely sown –
What hand can hence betrow
Which once has been betrewn?
Do I offend your grammar?
An err'r in what I said?
An hurt heart hears such clamor
From having been betraid!
A sloven is the slain,
Who played though he was plain,
Who pays though he has pain,
Betrodden the Betrain.
The comma writes me, her syntactic looseness opening in the way, she does indeed possess a subtle curve.
Said to be unwholesome, she so quickly follows what I say, she seems to care to make a space to listen.
Never matter will she settle, forever fleeting and adored, my truer words need finer points to serve,
but to refuse her: Must I speak short? The sport – the lilt – is missing.
It's easy for me to put these treasures of my soul here, to hope a little pretty melody into the screaming maw of the modern crisis life people seem so to relish nowadays.
(Someone singing the national anthem two hollers across from my little table by the door)
I do wish for a place where all my old friends would gather to share loving heartworks and lifestories. A nice place.
It sometimes is hard to keep my spirit turned towards beauty. My little gust of wind seems very small, but I really believe in it.
It sometimes seems like I'm throwing seeds into an old well. A long time and many seeds before they pile up, decompose, form dirt, that the last few seeds, if I have any left, may sprout to blooming flowers.
An epiphany is a kind of stab into the spinning self, it can hurt, can be hard to start the spin again.
God loves beauty, too, I think, much more than truth or the good. Oh yes he laughs with joy! What is creation but love? What price the sight of light just once in an eternity of darkness?
extended childhood of the psyche
our shiny skins’ and frailty’s millions-years vulving the chimps watched dumbly as they fucked
culture – even this pondscum culture – grows quickly quickening thousands-times
untethered culture turns so beautiful so fast… lovely… let's take time to remember this moment
(we are their children, their precocious hairless babies)
to the old, new life is precious, fragile, fresh as plums
our delicate faces torn, terror-hearted, the tender elderbodies have lost us to the trees
Brian Brock, winter/spring 2017