Devoted exclusively to the creative process. Here you will see photojournaling, poetry, prose, an occasional review--journaling or philosophical writing can be found on our other blogs. This is our attempt to use our imaginations. Enjoy!
Sunday, November 27, 2005
We were born mothers; we sleep in our children's beds.
Our beating blood comes from that love of children,
And all our talk is about our children.
Deep in the night when darkness grips the sky,
A razored lighted ripped into the eyes of children,
We gathered them close, hidden beneath our coats.
Our line was long: we waded with heavy legs,
Into that blackness that tried to swallow children.
The clutter of boots made hearing grow dull.
Shadowed hands grappled us with blind fury:
We huddled, muffling the cries of children.
Those dampened sounds belong to young and old.
Those grinning faces found that precious cargo,
Ripped from our arms those shrouded children.
They took them somewhere even God doesn't know.
Fetid flames grew fat and scorching heat swelled the air.
We covered our ears from those meek wails of children.
Smoke thickened the world into desperate puddles.
Yet a glistening wind raised up our eyes.
Delicate clouds revealed the smiles of children.
The feathered light rested their soft faces.
Oh God who loves us, join us with Mother Rachael.
She won't be comforted; she longs for her children.
When we soon meet, let us tell her of our children.
Based in part on Ted Hughes's "A Dream of Horses".
Posted by Enemy of the Republic at 3:47 PM
Friday, November 25, 2005
Think of Sisyphus, Mom,
rolling back the rock again and again.
Such a load to carry, but he bore it silently,
while disease ate his intestines, and
fever rose to his brain.
Why complain when it does no good?
Sentence rendered is sentence complete,
like the grammar you once taught.
Everyone else found something else to learn;
you just sank into the clay, while more
dirt piled up before your eyes.
None of this is over, sweet lady;
only you have the means to push
stone from stone into diamond.
Posted by Enemy of the Republic at 5:26 AM
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
With an alien people clutching their gods,
I should be glad of another death.
I dreamed I was a pillar of sand,
tall and magnificant--what
soul lived in this dirty temple?
Once I walked with the dust,
shaking the earth from my feet.
I saw the light graze at the sky;
such heat begged for shelter.
My knees buckled and cried into silence.
Now I am dead; my body stinks.
What must I do to live again?
The dryness piled around me, rubbing against my heart.
I await the command: "Come forth, my child."
Soon I will feel the sand around me
turn into his clay.
Posted by Enemy of the Republic at 6:47 AM
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