o15
carry me home,
sweet
and sound to me the doorbells of missteps and longings.
fallen tree
whose longing was to grow tall enough to touch sky
with spindling limbs
awing God with puritanic sensuality
and to show roots the might of an upward glance,
fell
and children scramble to play once more
before the axe let loose.
trick the doorbell
treat the taste of spindling childhood.
O14
you know, for days i tried to go home
pleading yes and no to stranger days.
in truth
my back has never been so postured poor
shooing the the drill of an index finger dug
deep
into the spine of apathy’s limp
the stiff starch bib, tarp of half minded first tastes dribbling into habit.
sometimes the noise of the world is just in your mind,
and the emptiness of now is in the wrongful decision of where to rest ones eyes.
you, of so many potentials i recall,
home came to us.
My ma and pa spoke this on their wedding day.
HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet:But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
-W.B. Yeats
