Winged

 

Now my dusty fields feel as empty as God.

Their days grown short and bound to memory, bound to choose some unattended tomb engraved and meaningless. My father in his years walks beside, we of hilltop waving to memories as if neighbors. A field of markers where marks are gardens grown cold. We walk from tree to spring and speak of simple things. I walk to know I am his son. To feel his branches around me, sweetly timed though this be all that straws of men attend. This be all that acres grieve. There are lungs and shoulders here, shrugged and bearing teeth, even before the last sun of summer. We walk to cover well what words cannot, for this l feed on fearsome ways. And as we walk I return in favor,  I feel as he explains… I am that field. I am that God of dust. The Jay with child lying in its tiny soul that has fallen. The ground is all that is left to scatter the final battle of skin. The body when done is such an unbecoming, the roots constructed as if they stem from some tangled Romanov and pearl of time. The crow too ascends our walk as a prayer to our moment, the mountain turning its head aflame, exposed over our verdant steel; eyes set in line and suicidal. The wind has never been so cold, it is as if ivory bursting into frosted blue. Here, it feels like ticking memories. The hands are painting my black back into screams while we walk, considering how wings once lived inside our smiles, how once I could return hastily without death holding everything inside my throat; winter’s hand hinged to a vascularity. Like Solomon I wait for demons. For time to build out into a finer spring. For daggers to do the evil course, the swelling sea at last my hidden rain. I am winged. My father is here beside…but in the last of our rising ash I take his name in death perhaps to fly.

Author's Note

Phew!

Reviews

[Gypsy Warrior Queen]

Funny thing...i only see one man walking..walking through a pastel painted sidewalk scape...smudged by rain or tears perhaps....then a collapsing shadow of tiny sparrows...free for every direction. Your work takes my soul far out beyond mere vision..it rattles and shakes and screams at death demanding me to live more life...ty.

[Perdition]

Funny thing ...are there more than one that need demand life when life alone demands you? Thanks Q~

[MAC]

this one was tough for me to read, memories being this and that. but bloody hell you can write. straight up, bring it on writing with flawless flow. your stuff breathes real life and this is a definitely lived in it poem. WOW, just wow

[Perdition]

Does not seem like a "thank you" moment but more towards a Poet to Poet push. It is a rare gift to find as well to be this influenced and surrounded by such talent as yours...perhaps we are all here for that reason but then again, who am I to underestimate the value in creative madness..lol. Smiles~

[emmajoy]

' A field of markers where marks are gardens grown cold. We walk from tree to spring and speak of simple things. I walk to know I am his son. To feel his branches around me, sweetly timed though '

This has a distance wrapped around it. Certainly - for me, a flight of presence, memories, inspirations and devotion. The loving bond between family and from whence you came and return. Beautiful, beautiful.

[Perdition]

No words just thanks for seeing it too.

[Ja]

Wow, quite the cleansing of the mind
Your fathers death left you behind
And your words soar, as well as sing
So with this writing they do take wing

Thank you kindly for your thoughts

[Perdition]

And for yours...He is alive however just sometimes the ghost is there before the body leaves. Cheers.