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Heron Clan freshly brewed 3/1/26
Bricks of Concrete: August 13, 1961
Memories of the Berlin Wall
Isolated in a sea of concrete, that
Are crushed to mold barriers to light,
Guns bear down on that summer day,
That grey summer day with sweaters on.
Cold, and separated, fear, and confused,
She’s pressed up against chain link fences
Of great height.
Tank barricades and midnight alerts,
Fears of the orphaned lives.
Small child lost in a crush of crowds,
“Why are there guns, Daddy?”
“Why are the people crying, Mommy?”
As she, the child, is rushed against the
Fence of chain.
“They want to take your freedom, Daughter,”
“Surrounding you with industrial brick.”
Crushed and pillioned, of torn down buildings,
Homes of people, lost and stolen,
To make their bricks, hastened to hold them, all
In, on that cold day, grey, in August
Of the Wall.
Darkness into the Abyss
Go and let go but keeping memories
That stain your soul
Black
Your heart, your chest aching with the loss
That paints your heart
Blue
In bitterness to the lover's body
That bruises your breast
Purple
Crumbling the bones of your back and hips
That thrust into your core
Red
Until you writh with the agony and the sorrow
That hurtles you into an abyss
Flames
Washes of Hues
Washes of hues, confuse
the binge of sound.
Noises in the head, scrape
against the colors,
in the brain.
The din maddening,
Deafening the need,
to think.
Quiet little harbingers,
Quiet little aches of loss,
Rise undulating in her mind,
Dancing, tauntingly 'til,
She couldn't take it anymore.
Constant affection, disaffection
In truth,
Blurred the hues
that scraped the mind
That binged the brain
in metronomes of sound
all around.
All resound
To drive her crazy.
He did that.
He made her crazy.
He made her crazy,
So that one night she just flew.
It wasn’t a long flight,
Just a gesture to the wind
As she was gone.
Metronome of maestros
pounding in her brain,
Not-right-not-right.
(Take-flight-take-flight.)
The hues can’t erase
Swirling water-tones
of pigment
She see inside her eyes.
The pattern on his jacket,
Buried tear stained face,
Sepia yellows, grayed blues,
Shadows begging for a palette,
knife.
Sleep eludes, scrapes
the brain
washes tints
to form
the gone-ness of time
On the tempered paper
Of her mind.
