Iron morning, steel gray skies,
crows on the rooftops.
I’m not seeking, only waiting,
pressed under winter’s hand.
I eat and drink with silent armies,
tent fires burning shards of dream.
The care to remember creaks
open and shut like a rusty gate
as ghosts pass to receive forgiveness
from the popes of deception. On and on
lyrics drone with instruments
of mindless youth and bitter age.
In the cacophony a soloist remembers
the resurrection and with plaintive sound
trembles the dark cave, awakening
a starving bear. With low growl I race him
to the door and become the very first
to feast on light.
Reading of “First to Feast” with music by Ben Berkenbosch.
Forget ‘woke’. This is what it really means to wake up.
You are deep into the trance of the mythic imagination, seamlessly joining the Christian and pagan traditions with the inexplicable logic of the dream, which is so mysteriously satisfying.
Don, now that Nancy and I are arrived in Evanston, IL, the change of time zone makes us wait a couple of hours for the arrival of Sunday’s poem. The wait is worthwhile. I see you gave Lou McKenzie a week off but Jim Frid’s photograph is a good.choice, too. Lou may have the week off but, as you imply in your poem, the popes of deception are active. We know who they are.
That’s quite a journey! And somehow good cheer is the final and prevailing emotion of this journey, with what must be a rowdy race to the cave’s mouth. Whew. Light!
I love the phrase: “The care to remember creaks open and shut like a rusty gate…” Each image in fact evokes a colour, sound and a visual in my mind’s eye. I can even smell the tent fires. Brilliant piece. With the low growl I heard, I know who came first to the light. Thank you for inviting us to “leap” with you through imagery. ‘Tis a good day to be alive!
Another level to the encampment surfacing such that we can be of good faith and allow this pure Light coming from the Absolute to enter in quietude.