If every day were
like yesterday,
I would die
of bliss.
Instead
the intermittent
moments of catatonic
downpour leave me
drowning -
halfway
To walk along
those amber
wheaten shores and
see the water laughing
as it tumbles by
And lanterns
wave in
twinkling
sunshine setting
through the ice.
That moment,
bliss enough
to wait through
this interminable
winter longing.
© Eleanor Clark
5 February 2015
05 February, 2015
06 January, 2015
Differences
When will time and space
be enough to heal the hurt
of centuries oppression,
pain, intolerance, and
all that ails the world
cut into fences, walls
and mountains -
layers of misunderstanding
intentionally bred to foster
bitter hatred and despising
of the other?
Will we wait until our skins
are blended into imperceptible
shades of something else
with eyes and lips and mouths
in shapes so indistinguishable
from now that we can finally see
that from the inside confines,
muscly sinews, our thoughts,
hopes, dreams, ideas in
rainbow splendidness were
woven from material
the same?
© Eleanor Clark
6 January 2015
be enough to heal the hurt
of centuries oppression,
pain, intolerance, and
all that ails the world
cut into fences, walls
and mountains -
layers of misunderstanding
intentionally bred to foster
bitter hatred and despising
of the other?
Will we wait until our skins
are blended into imperceptible
shades of something else
with eyes and lips and mouths
in shapes so indistinguishable
from now that we can finally see
that from the inside confines,
muscly sinews, our thoughts,
hopes, dreams, ideas in
rainbow splendidness were
woven from material
the same?
© Eleanor Clark
6 January 2015
17 December, 2014
The World
The World
is not owned
by you or me
or anyone.
We paint lines
in sand with
blood and oil
and tears
and think some
signed treaty
will decide what's
mine or yours
or theirs.
The waves will
roll and the
dust clouds gather
amid the swirling
sands that shift
and leave our
monuments covered
deep beneath where
upon some future
will build their
effigies
in stone.
Mark your territory
like a feral cat -
slash his throat
until the blood
runs out.
You too will die
one day, by famine,
the sword or worse.
Sleep upon your
pile of fleeting
gold and shout
you are exceptional,
the best.
In ten thousand years
when your grave
lies unmarked,
unheralded for
the whole world
to see - remember
this - this World
is not mine,
or yours, or theirs,
it is its own.
© Eleanor Clark
17 December, 2014
is not owned
by you or me
or anyone.
We paint lines
in sand with
blood and oil
and tears
and think some
signed treaty
will decide what's
mine or yours
or theirs.
The waves will
roll and the
dust clouds gather
amid the swirling
sands that shift
and leave our
monuments covered
deep beneath where
upon some future
will build their
effigies
in stone.
Mark your territory
like a feral cat -
slash his throat
until the blood
runs out.
You too will die
one day, by famine,
the sword or worse.
Sleep upon your
pile of fleeting
gold and shout
you are exceptional,
the best.
In ten thousand years
when your grave
lies unmarked,
unheralded for
the whole world
to see - remember
this - this World
is not mine,
or yours, or theirs,
it is its own.
© Eleanor Clark
17 December, 2014
10 December, 2014
Once a Man
I...
drip, drip
decay in
faeces
shrouded shadow
drip.
was...
Pain
Twisted tight
in shackles
clanging
once...
Sunlight
edged
a ray through
bleak cold
a man...
"Tell us!"
Blank eyes
blank head
blank stare
...I think.
© Eleanor Clark
10 December, 2014
drip, drip
decay in
faeces
shrouded shadow
drip.
was...
Pain
Twisted tight
in shackles
clanging
once...
Sunlight
edged
a ray through
bleak cold
a man...
"Tell us!"
Blank eyes
blank head
blank stare
...I think.
© Eleanor Clark
10 December, 2014
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