poetryrepairs 16,06:071

SUE LITTLETON: Evening in the World
RALPH MONDAY : Moon Crescent

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RALPH MONDAY
Evening in the World

As I lay me down to sleep in the still house turned round the sun by the moving earth, I wonder if at evening prayers the Sufi mystic, Catholic, Buddhist, Hindu, the Jihadist, do they all pray to the same god, and if that god has terrible eyes or soft, loving brown ones? Many sacraments are offered: lamb eating green field grass, scorpions sliding in glass-like sand singed by the first winds blown out on the first day—women bending at a clear pool to wring out their long, wet hair that has dried the feet of private thoughts, the martyr at a baked wall bloodied and bruised by centuries’ surge, golden Buddha listening to angel arias—and the sword, terrible savage where blood is prayer within itself. The long evening fingers, knitted together like elastic bands of cumulous clouds rolling by unseen—specters spying the human cry for answers that remains always in blue shadow, like smoke, like mist—some jade jinn sitting on the mantle never speaking. These kind seeking the key to the riddle would plumb heaven’s eyesockets, set ears tocking back and forth, put tongue to bush and rock, gazelle and gingko—looking always looking—finding reflected permanently desires of the heart.

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RALPH MONDAY
Moon Crescent

The moon glides, silvery swanlike crescent through a sky beyond human cognition. Beneath, there are birds in the clouds singing seed songs. Airplanes float, Japanese fireflies in a test tube, between an unseen sun and a living moon, where passengers look out into the dark. Heaven and earth suspended between thumb, index finger, an old story stitched in air thrills the genetic limbs of man, of bird, rock, tree. Human pulsing hearts like a sunflower quasar thrust into a bad science fiction story, like a pulsar emanating magical radiation waves, like a gigantic gravity ridden black hole sucking up all flowered light so that the human brain, bipolar, forgets the sleepless halves, goes circuitous once again around forgotten memories, instincts stirred in loins. Hunger is there in a thousand million different manifestations: thirst for the cicada, drinking the whale, living the dog: runes, symbols, hieroglyphic story written in not only stone, but also in the blind minddance of all stories that began in caves and ended in movie lights.

poetryrepairs #225 15,06:071






   




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