Copyright 1999 - 2002 Bob Persons

Four Poems

Burial
White Angels
Behind Me
Farmer

Burial

There's a warm wind blowing
where your heart lies at rest
in the moist earth. I come
for the memory, I guess, though
I don't know why I didn't need
the memory before today.

The drilling in the rock has stopped,
he plugs the plastic stem into the hole.
The garish red flower erects
like a stop sign above your feet.
It could've been a real lily
or rose - It makes no difference
to you, I know, but it does to me.

The sands wash down with every rain
making you every day more one
with the earth. Why not the air?
or the sea? Why do we bury
ourselves in soil? And what of those
who are buried in the sea or the air?
Are their dreams any different?

I do believe in a place of power.
I wish to be buried there - as ash,
consorting with air + water and earth.
But it all comes down to earth
after all, doesn't it? The ash floating
in air or lake washes down to sink
into the earth + dream with worms.


White Angels

There's a place where she goes
to dream of me, I know.
How could it not be?
She remembers, just as I,
that vision - two white angels
on the clear white sand.
Two whimpering
in the last crumbling embrace.

She feels it just as I come upon
that place that holds that power.
She must be standing in that
very place on her side of the world.
She feels the knee go down, the bite
of mesquite in her arms, the crash
of stars in her flight from the end.

She knows what I know in her place
at the end of the world.
She knows that I know that it all
ended there on the clear white sand
but it will not go away.


Behind Me

I put all that behind me, I washed
all my sins away. I ripped every tie
that would bind me from my neck
and rolled that mighty stone away.
There ain't a water I ain't walked on.
There ain't a hill I ain't contemplated
throwing myself offa. No cup a coffee
I ain't poured for the son of Man
on that holy trail thru the endless smoking desert.

I wash up on the carpet of the
sun-soaking hills alongside the beetles
and the orange 'pede skittering
on the surface of the ocean of sand.


Farmer

The farmer in me cries when I see
another highway scratched thru the soil.
But the farmer in me is a bug.
He took a few long scratches out of the earth,
himself, from the plains that were there
before him.

 


- Lone Coyote Calls

 


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