Like November Leaves

              I went out into the forest
to listen to the fluted voices echoing from the lungs
of the centipede,
    the owl in its nocturnal insomnia.   
              Oh bearers of rainbowed light,
I hear the inner most nuances spoken from the throat
of a green faced goddess,
    who sadly, has become almost silenced
          by the hubbub of an industrialized bacchanal. 
              And who will rise like a sleeping giant,
rattle free the knot that has been woven
    into our beleaguered minds,
          what mystic presence
                  will release the forgotten gypsies
    so that they may dance once again
          upon the face of the moon? 
              Our woman of starlight and imagination
has been smothered beneath
    the signature of a cancerous rocking horse
            that weaves back and forth in the darkness
    of emptiness and conquered wombs . . . 
              non fertile, suffering in the trenches
of one million wars.     
      And I cannot see the birds fly past my window
              because the sky now suckles at the breast
      of humanity’s decaying nipple. 
              We lick at the stained glass circumference
of an oracle that has been blistered
    by our own self created dis-ease. 
                Must we be remembered in galactic history
as those who persuaded
    the non stop tubercular suffering to spread
            unabated upon this once forgiving planet? 
                Now it coughs and sputters,
its hypnotic hymn muted by the rubble
    emanating from the non spiritual pews
            of dead churches, factories and the swastika             
empowered flags waving above strip malls. 

                Oh at the edge the forest there is a storm brewing . . .

may it come in time to wash clean
      the foliage of our minds,
                lost and falling

                like November


                leaves.