no more the nightingale regales in the space between words
fending off death in the Emperor's garden
singing in lilied music reprieving the Soul
weaving the moonlight through the clouds irrevocably.
now the poets take pride in being plainspoken
so we have banished wings content to plod.
to build the house of sod
to leave the prairie meadowlarks the skies
tinted with roses. but not our children.
stick upon stone to leave this alone.
what the Romantics were known for.
what they died for.
how can I help but sigh.
how can I ever comply.
I was raised on Shelley
and on the 23rd Psalm
and I have qualms that truly
we have made
whole kingdoms disappear
becoming only integers.
mary angela douglas 23 june 2020
No comments:
Post a Comment