Monday, April 30, 2012

The Grass in all its Glory

These days are rife with clearing sales; those rows of trash upon the lawn
and signs requesting quarters for a box of mismatched parts
the streets, alive with traffic, toting people to their weekday chores
to masters touting grindstone wheels for every willing nose

These nights are filled with heavy sighs, and memories of youth now gone
of wasted opportunities, and scores of broken hearts
the streets, subdued, bereft of music save the twilight underscores
and asymmetric keyboard clacks that turn the wind to prose

Within the trash of humankind a rummage might find Avalon;
a magic tome or marker that portends an altered start
A book perhaps, a tattered image bearing one to distant shores
a twist upon the life that is, toward that one might suppose

And still each parcel of this ilk demands the price of brain or brawn
a penny for one’s thoughts requires a penny must depart
so oft we labor, tooth and nail, amidst the vapid teeming bores
who dream of pretty pennies ‘till their beings decompose

Yet here while sorting silver clouds from sad conclusions long foregone
I fear atop my pennies wise lay horses, ‘fore their carts
my joy is not commodity, no cash commands where spirit soars
my eyes once opened will absorb the depth of one red rose

If I can but remember this, and hex commercial carrion
my smile might spread more broadly twixt the goddess and her arts
If then to trash my lock box and step through those facing hundred doors
I might again find rapture in those things a poet knows

So help me now, you wunderkind, to see what’s hidden by the dawn
the world that blazes far beyond these market cheats and charts
take hold my hand and lead us to our soft and vibrant inner cores
that we may know true meaning in the grass, and how it grows

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