a monody for our planet
roam melancholy chardonnay fields,
long ago sewn and harvested
by hands that knew greater pains and melodies;
because life was not always so solemn,
but instead was a language shared between the earth
but now we wander with our lutes and lyres,
tired and parched and exposed on the naked land;
we can no longer discern the whispers that plead around us,
but can only focus on our weathered anxious hands, clenched
tight, wrinkling at such a young age
because we used up the water long ago.
we hear tales of a green and blue earth
and, with mouths watering, try to imagine such beauty.
we lick our lips at the prospect, as our wrinkled hands and
cracked feet mold the gray terrain into coffins and coffee tables.
beleaguered poets draw wisps of sympathy
but they are swiftly caught in an exhaust-pipe draft, and
are gone, and we are back to the ground
where the sounds of round mourning doves
echo and haunt,
and we mourn along with them
in the unspeakable way of doves
the bittersweet speech of those creatures who remember the language of the
lament its loss,
pity the deaf ear-to-ground minstrels
who have nothing to hide in their lyricist hands,
but everything to gain.
laid-to-rest charlatans are scattered
with gravel and ash, among other things,
and we wish that our facade could be so great,
that our dirge could also scale such mountains,
but we settle for a proud pilgrimmage through the desert to the past,
kicking up dust the whole way, only to find
where the earth was irreverantly placed,
another lost language of lovers and fools
littered with those who died along with it.
it is only now, a time among times
that we realize the weight of our plight,
that we understand the somber shadows standing
between us and the sun.
if you indeed be a lover, a minstrel, a poet, a steward of life,
rinse your cracked hands a take a drink,
and you will find that the fields are ablaze,
just waiting for your call to arms.