Oh carry me away from here my love
because the angels, even though they are still around,
are flying underground where they can be safe.
And there are black doves drowning in unholy lakes
of beer and non organic spittle while the afternoons
are haunted by the moans of lacerated dogs
and the distant weeping of Arabic children.
Oh carry me away from here my love,
away from the wooden hearts of carpenters
who erect temples that honour old stories,
sky blue mini vans and the curled fists
of immoral bibles.
I cannot survive these ice age days, these stumbling
ghost forms who shave in front of cracked mirrors
while humanity dances its bones nonchalantly
upon a stage surrounded by barbed wire.
I want a more delicate touch than the dark fingers
that poke their way through my bedroom walls,
perpetuating the sexually enticing conversation
of politicians and harlots, the visions of falling birds
or the hollow faces of spiritual mariners who collide
upon a shoreline of economic driftwood
while the lighthouse keeper sadly shuts off his light
and prays for the return of a garden of whales.
The earth vomits, the heavens drip with acidic sweat,
the world becomes a rancid oyster that desperately
tries to shed its unnatural shell
while the hands of historical clocks melt into a puddle
of chaos.
And while a serpent wraps its coils around the feet
of mythological gods I find myself wanting to reenter
my mothers womb where I can write a volume of verse
devoid of any kind of anxiety.
So carry me away from here my love . . . there must
be a road somewhere that leads back to the original tree
of knowledge, where there are no curbs smothered
in electronic dust, where the radium and neon cannot
penetrate my weary pores, where the devils
and the warlocks of war have been banished,
where the banjo picker of artificial posterity has broken fingers,
where the frozen blue room of loneliness
is filled with laughter and the smiling faces
of chickadees and infants swaddled in benevolent blankets,
where the shadows lingering
at the wailing wall of misery are allowed to dry their tears,
where the cracked lines of the planet are healed
by a new bride of consciousness and where the internal chain
around the heart falls away, leaving it free to pulsate
with the green blood of non materialism.
Yes, carry me away from here my love, because I fear that I am fading fast . . .
In a list
A contest entry
- Who are you? by LovelyLauren.
1000 points, ended April 14, 27 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - twin sister by the atlantic.
6600 points, ended May 19, 16 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - Frozen Sadness - xx by The Hardest Goodbye.
900 points, ended May 5, 19 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 10 of 10
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o wow ... amazing, just .. amazing. The way you worded everything just blows me away. I loved it, thanks so much for entering it in my contest, good luck & best wishes
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You may be fading but your soul shines. So delicate, poignant, and true. Put ten million sighs here>
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Wow! This is amazing!@ So much soul and pain...all the truth of the current pain on this earth mixed with the longing for paradise.
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yes, the "more delicate touch" - that is what the world, what all of us needs. i remember i once wrote in a poem "meet me with the face you had before you were born"....you took me there with this very beautiful and nostalgic poem, Marc.
~ Nicolette
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"I want a more delicate touch"
Sighhh...Don't we all, my poetic brethern? Deep, dark & lovely, Sweetie...
-
Poet
An excellent write portraying ones grief and disgust with todays world. Sadly our self made man gods have not lived up to our expectations. We, mere mortals, that share the good and the evil. Where compassion and greed go hand in hand. but what and where is the next alternative?
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Bravo...
Outstanding write, this really moved me.
Salute! -
Superb Plus +
A very fine write, as usual, from your very talented pen. I tend to agree with most of the thoughts which you so ably expressed. Thanks for sharing. -
And there are black doves drowning in unholy lakes
of beer and non organic spittle - that about sums me up mate right now -
these stumbling
ghost forms - i love that imagery -
ah this is a good poem, i am drunk right now feeling alittle off but i can appreciate the words that fly.
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Thank you . . . it is because of the need to write pieces like this one that I am almost tempted to go back to drink myself for some relief . . .
Marc
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