Silence Blown
© 2018 Harold
Bo Clapsaddle, a hardball clod posed
Silence arrests
the room
‘gainst death and all
oblivious
wearin’ a world out to
endin’ doom
this mysterious force
found of us
ifin it would only turn
around
to the deep voice of ocean
talkin’ to the ground.
Tears floats rainy
fragrance gone and yon
nigh of glitterin’ river’s
bosom swell
purple muscle shelled bony
lendings on
where rides all hope upon
to quell
what silence arrests the
room
wearin’ a world out to
endin’ doom.
Honeysuckle round all must
share
of its nectar so awful
silent sweet
whether black or white do
so dare
to scramble an egg so full
of meat
that at once something
worse of
can we believe in other
than love.
Specters severin’
bottomless pit
occidental flex spits and
sputters
where the broad noon has
never lit
the street lamps light the
Coochie cutters
the demon seeds, the
terminal silence
in presence of absence is
it’s sentence.
Of the melancholy words a
dyin’
I, a poet, now writes to
the dark
while behind window blinds
sighin’
I wonder, shall I make
another mark
as the rose has faded and
rose anew
blazes of red and blue
sovereign due.
Mint of rankly smoke the
altars make
where silence binds the
mockin’ crowd
for hence it be where the
heathen brake
to see what figure lies
‘neath it’s shroud
as bundle of wind about
the sky has blown
Holy
scepter of Jesus and varied cries known
