Saturday, February 5

poetry #5 - ...does it make a sound?

© mdlockhart 2009

charcoal cold, she spreads herself above him
  noble, wanton, she hides, she hides behind
  the petty coats of the azure-breathing forest
tense and groaning, they sway beneath her,
  kaleidoscopic dancers, verdant in the planet's breath

i also sway, lost in the darkening
  in the spider-spinning cacophony of this aging warrior
  he is oblivious, lost in his own fuming worship
arms spread wide and full of shadow lines
  twisted, scar-knurled and full of fate

he is the former opulence
  brittle trailing of the ether's bridal gown
  now yellowed and ashed, he is alone
an anachronism
  hidden in among the lush present

besieged by a green youth, callous, callow
  not imbued with a proper
  respect, but in him there is a refusal
  arthritic and T-boned, his crooked palms raise
eternally to the stinging rain
he shakes and cracks within her dispassionate embrace
  straining towards the deluge, skeletal
  it spills, her showers
like sand between bony fingers
  and rigid, impotent, he rattles and rails

the mistress, un-aged, dances
  rushing between her younger lovers’ groaning limbs
  her laughter and disdain rolling
deeply, booming in the shadow
  through cloud and over root

he strains, zealot rigid
  unbending, spine fused by age and frustration
  no possible supplication
is left to him
  proud, but diminished

he stands as mute witness to
  the absolute constant of mutability
  the virginal truth of change
  the glare of what may be
to a dodgy and skittish present
tall, he prophesies
  a blood-full, onyx sky swollen above
  gyres about him with her younger lovers
slashes him with tears, explodes in ecstasy
  amplified echoes of his angst

desperate, he barks splinters
  against the sky that cuckolds him
  summons his own thunder and,
one last time, without resignation
  bends back to stare into her weeping mien

i hear his cracking sigh, 
  see him kneel and fall
  warmly, the scent of her full and sweet
he crashes to the forest floor
  and returns, returns to the earth

the young dance, oblivious above him, but i see
  as i see her, shuddering as she nods
  a final thunder head bowing to earth
  as with a flourish, a final tear she
mourns into the spreading darkness

© mdlockhart 2007

(Up the mountain in the first months after the inversion started, I found one deciduous tree at over 7000 ft, 600 or 700 feet above any other deciduous. It was dead, but beautiful, held up by the pines around it. The poem isn't about that tree, one I saw fall in a wind storm in Alberta, but it could be. Will be. One day.)