New World Seeds

                The shadows of dusk hide in the young eyes of couriers,

                those creaking young bones drive their engines home

                into their suburb shrines, restore the curse of

                desire and the order of child and their paths cross over

                the path makers and the blankets of lenders

                cover fixed winners. But the crisp glad faces,

                the artists of skilled sleep, their glaring smiles

                filled long with cool and gleaming white,

                walk in green pastures beyond the streets gray lid,

                beyond optics scattered in sheltered wombs,

                in the high towers, where scent nor repose reaches.

                Birds in the Beech trees, singing birds -

                whom no shelter covers, whose small wings wander

                the silvery arms of life, warbling

                sweet zest, melodies that ferry love songs

                to thrill the soul to the inner chambers, the old

                music of the woodland trails and the flight of fall Geese

                that bid adieu the scoured succulent harvest,

                throw their bright voices on the future's restless ears.

                Oh fiber dreamers. Oh concrete toilers

                of the sad cities, messengers trapped in din halls,

                in the uprising throngs of haste with the head

                chiefs drawn faces of sworn allegiance -

                greenwoods call, call from the struggling seeds,

                show me your faces - sleep in my protest tent.

                Under the coins in the wishing well

                a myriad of faces hide, the faces of children

                their love communion

                to lacking ears, isolated time, guilded minds.

                Mother's ghostly justice encircles the savage

                pirates of the perfect emerald belt,

                their blades of steel storming the ancient ridges

                valley to valley, to the great seas, sacred

                seeds, flying gypsies, left crushed on desert floors.

                In the teeming roar brass ears miss the future voices

                in the playground, seeds for whom they kill.

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darkpool's picture

Um yeah.. Eric, quite a collage of concepts, the one is not quite in focus before I run full-tilt into the next. A thicket of sign posts, each pointing me just a little ways down a bright path, but then the path peters out before an impenetrable thicket of disjointed images. I'm one of those readers who needs to be taken by the hand and led gently to the end of thought. If you keep switching tracks, forever starting new ones without going to the end of the one we're on, I have to bolt and find my own way without you. Maybe if I read it a few more times, i can cobble together a message using fuzzy logic, a mental calculus based on associative imagery .... where do I start? This poem is meant for those who revel in the delivery of images at breakneck speed. I'm sure it will please many. Ken

eltrue's picture


Thanks Ken! I think you're right too many tributaries off of each river of thought.

Have a great day man!

People don't run out of dreams they just run out of time.