The Poetry Of.
Rick Marlatt............................................................
Going Down
Going down for coffee you
choose to take the baby with
thumb in mouth he rides in one arm
you grip the empty cup in the other.
Going down you damn yourself
and your slippery wool socks.
Mind awakes in slamming skull
empty arms horrified weightlessness.
Going down baby flies
open staircase stubborn gravity.
You race down and around
silent throat throttled by fear.
Going down you see him there
wet with tears hellacious cries.
Feather in palm you raise him
to your breast rotating joints.
Going down mother sees carnage
Why? Living dreams too young to die
Yet bruiseless after unimaginable drop-
she howls praises for soft hands of God.
Going down you hit your knees
faith like a mountain in your eyes.
will you deny her again, stumble
stunned in your long race to dawn?
Spring Rebirth
in the dream
my calloused feet
took root into earth
down they went
through men's cracked bones
struck inside God's pulse
dark life juice
flowed up my veins
new blood popped in me
I then grew
embraced great plains
stomped prints in great lakes
swallowed clouds
cooled stars and suns
eyes locked with mountains
when I died
my feet were shot
arms felt boiled away
eyes now open
feet are treetops
ticklish branches sway
palm creases
river the blank
Tygress to new worlds
On the Eve of Graduation
It's a funny thing
Standing alone on a friend's back porch.
Rhythms of the midnight train, eastward coal.
Consumed by night, gripped by ale's tongue.
The voices inside trail off.
It's a funny thing
Watching most of a decade sail by.
Was restless despite your slow walks and intimacy.
Resisting cliché, adage, proverbial hour glasses.
Now mere hours away from handshakes, photographs.
It's a funny thing
Told of many paths to the top of the mountain,
you drew the coal it offered from its core.
Bled with it, clenched in your fist until
you packed it away in some forgotten car.
It's a funny thing
Dwindling time till departure calls.
That all coal must be accounted for.
Mug sets by your feet, cigar takes leave.
You climb up, taking inventory of the soul.
Will Hamlet's query ignite purpose,
light up the dark alleys and solemn faces,
call to the fiery dreamers who stand fast
like the sturdy streetlight in black blizzard?
Does the Russian's Harvard address
thaw greed's frost-bitten limbs,
awaken the forest spirits of peace,
too long in silent slumber?
Can Faulkner's fuel send ripples through
streams of consciousness which reach
the driest ends of suncracked earth,
and crash into rocks made hard by time?
Or Like Capricorn's thieves, flee under
cover of night, feed war machines who
make global progress of child laughter. And
bleed dry the land where ancients prayed.
It's a funny thing
Standing alone on a friend's back porch.
Rhythms move on down the track.
Night's trance rescinds. Sparkling, you return.
Cleared. Loaded. Ready to burn.
