“The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke

 

 

 

Moments of the past do not last
kicked into the long grass
of a warm, early-summer’s day
when gold petals
gleam
for God’s sake!

Stormy-autumn prefigures
flurries of snow
eaten up by the body heat;
silky snow frosting all over
tumbling-heaps of red, gold, brown
that crisp-crackle underfoot
in Buchenwald, Weimar,
where Goethe once lived and wrote.

Now old fools lose their threads
in fogs
where pot-heads, fragile, thin,
amply fill the skin they’re still not in.

Mornings echo with savage-silent-dread
memories-lost, storm-tossed, within my head.
Look! dust-motes float
amongst the weeping dead
like gossamer-linked
spiders’ webs
tears glittering in the rain
like words thought, but never said,

like the resurrection of the undead
misrule-misled.
into the eye of the storm
a moment of calm,
do no harm, and then, do no harm.

Young-ghosts, finally-fled,
into the very heart of the matter,
in my head,
I see chapped, red-raw hands,
dirt ingrained
from working the fields,
storm-sent, soil-scented, sweat-stained winds
blow me back to kingdom-come,
lost-time silently beats its drum
the time has come.

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