The seasons now, they never change me
|
|
Description:
The seasons now, they never change me
The seasons now, they never change me. Or not as clear as then or that I am aware of Each bud sprouting used to catch me sleeping Wake me up and feed me. Award me in the greenery Of every vacant street. The grey after-gas of winters sleep. New voices-coming to the end of a black out dream. And they spoke with fresh tongues and let you breathe deep. Crocuses come sturdy up in the Birchwood fields and I could Set my head down and cool in the new march sun. Maybe muse on what I could do. Laugh at the intimate touch Of evening that would only ever chance touch me. Walk in car-silence in moments of insignificant pleasantries Not think of peasants or movements or poetry. There was an unattainable sacrament in the swaying April chant of flowers. Spring! The birth! As far as I can remember Every Sunday told me so. The chance to emerge again From the tomb of December always Wounded but for the better. Doubt would always be cast out With no mercy for the time spent speaking with it. All my makers were beyond me Myth was let free and opened up for my art and abilities. Everyone was ready, together open and together able. Freed alike, alike with me. But now I see no buds above me. The crocuses seem unstable. The kids will ruin them. The dreamy gas of winter has drugged us out of it. We cannot shake the feeling of its cold When I stand I am shrugging. When I sit I am sore. When I speak I am sleeping. When I hear a knocking the dog is barking at the door. All the births are still born. I feel the whip of a government I see the opium-eyed drowsing of the poor Creeping closer to my footsteps And I have eight pairs of shoes to run with. And I fear the long fear of a lifetime cuff me. And no the seasons now they never change me And I see it clear and there is no luck that I’m aware of. There is no foot in the door. But there are bones and blood and a spirit to be earned So get up man. Get up, get up and make yourself a man. Get up and start your labour. Get up and make yourself a world. |
Submitted on 2012-02-27 11:37:30 Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
Edit post
Comments
This starts off really strong (From the tomb of December always/Wounded but for the better" is wonderful) and I love the way you interweave the Christian holidays into this and tie them to the death/rebirth, winter/spring metaphor. Bit I think you go a bit off track when you write about "the whip of a government" - I'd think about rewriting that bit. This is a really strong effort and I think you can strengthen it by staying on the topic you start off with.| | Posted on 2012-03-06 00:00:00 | by joeyalphabet | [ Reply to This ] | | | Posted on 2012-02-28 00:00:00 | by Wolfwatching | [ Reply to This ] | this feels hopeless, but not. and i suppose i should explain... | there is a lot packed in here. the seasons, the experience of them, other people, church (or that's the sense i get), poverty, lack of stability, stagnancy, etc... as well, there is this sense that there was a time when something as simple as the newness of spring put a spring in one's step. and the experience of it was one of renewal. but that feeling is gone as if the renewal doesn't really exist. like it's a facade. a lie, even, because the only thing different is the weather. and i say hopeless, but not, because in the end, learning to rely on self seems important. like one can't expect a season to make things better, or the government, or other people, or maybe even church, i mean obviously they can enhance, but one can't expect them to make a difference in one's life. somehow, you gotta find that from within. perspective, i guess. anyhoo... probably totally buggered up what your intention was with this, but here ya go. really good piece i think. | Posted on 2012-02-27 00:00:00 | by isabella | [ Reply to This ] | |
194437
Edit/Delete posts
Create Writing
Create Journal