The Poetry Of.
Karen Corcoran Dabkowski
Galloping Gods
On what horizon, what sun rises
redly ruling
pulling planets to herself
and letting you spin apart? On what dark night
did the car go off in a trail of exhaust allowing the roam
of the lost forgotten passenger
to a place you've
now forgotten
yourself
if ever you knew one destination
from another--- or if all things, all times tend to
regroup
themselves to find they live one long scorched night in a desert that never cools
and the only rules are man made
by the hour, why, what madness then, what glorious nihil growing cry of never
why
or how, but
where, where
are
we now, for it's the going
is the
thing,
not the arrival.
Never that.
the strange case of__
In the light wasp
step
of thought
dawning
telling you
all of your days are very much the same
names
faces
places
switchback unconfused
and falling
into place to let you know you're
exactly where you were
yesterday
and the day
before that
and the year before
that you were as crazy as ever
you
were
and
nothing changes
but the
calendar
and the color of the towels
more cat hair on the chair more white
locks falling
over eyes gone dull as dust you have not
died
you do
not have
to
you
have
disappeared.
Listening For The Call
There will be makers
and breakers of illusion
but that
is what illusion is
a glass
thing. An impression
in the smoke
of the day's exhalations. Think not that hearts
or minds are broken
in this way, it's merely
thoughts
conjured
out of naught
but wish
and warp
of light. There is a fat fist
gripped about reality
that cannot be seduced by pretty words
and it lays
in wait.
It comes
when called. It knows
the sure scent on the wind of the blood real skip
of the heart from fancy's flight, knows day from night
and truth
from licked at lies. It is the anchor
ing of all. It is a voice so slight
when slipping off too far into charm's verbosity, in ways
that enslave
the
will.
A small still
voice it is
and always was.
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