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Two Poems
by A.S. Coomer For the City of Light There is an emptiness some try to fill with bullets, with things that pop or go boom. There is an emptiness some try to fill with fire, with burning, with blades and gas and black masks. There is an emptiness that some try to fill with darkness but it is already filled with darkness, to the metaphoric brim, with the darkness. There is enough of that in the world without your malice. There is enough suffering without your ill intent, without your rabid power grabbing, without your delusions of grandeur, without your senselessness, without your utter selfishness. With the strongest voice in my quiet self I will sing, and the song will not do justice, it will right no wrongs, it will not praise or declaim, it will not be enough. But I will sing. Maybe the Burning Bush I’m going to miss that smell, grass blades as sharp as shattered glass shards from the cutting, when it’s gone. And it’s going to be going quickly now. Summer simmered into Fall. Fall will fizzle into Winter. The burning bush in the front yard is already hard at work, going through the motions, doing what needs doing. I regret seeing it, the gearing up for the slowing down; the dying, yet cherish its swan song at the same time. The more I live, the more I breath, I see this is the only way. Marching constantly towards the bleak, towards the ever expanding gulf --the void-- but seeking out and exalting in the briefest of flashes. What is it? That we really have? Pops in the night, firecrackers making you jerk and flinch, barking their cacophonous snatches of melody. Something from nothing? Nothing for something? Doesn’t it end up being one in the same? The wind, the sun, the firecrackers, the freshly cut grass --it’s slowing now, slower now, the time is nearly at hand now-- might be about the only answers I can find in a panoply of unanswerable questions. There’s Truth in the dying as well as in the quick wisps of the brief living. Oh, and maybe the burning bush. |
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