The gypsy fortune teller has gone off her meds--
The drunken ambulance men
Would take her away if they could only stop laughing and find the friggin' doors.
Churches are no place for angels,
But a fine place for bones.
Oh look, Bo Peep,
Stop cutting yourself for five minutes and listen.
There is no astrology to this, and no sacraments.
No rescue.
Just a few plasters and some mutton stew.
Leave your crook here and we'll go down to the beach before it snows--
We'll steady each other as we pour the sand from our hearts,
So we at least don't have to do it alone;
We'll watch it blow away in sheets
Like Tarot-Jesus.
(His woman kicked him out--
Him and his broken clock gospel,
Right twice a day
But still comforting to us black-faced and not-beautiful ones
Who, despite all the mud daubing, still go blind from scanning the horizon
For hopeful signs.)
___________________
"Him and his broken clock gospel,
ReplyDeleteRight twice a day"
"Broken clock gospel right twice a day." I am guessing it is stuck on 5 or 6 meaning the sunrise and sunset. I'm dying to know. I'm so happy I found your blog thanks to Mike.
Welcome back Shay!
ReplyDeleteAmazing! Welcome back!
ReplyDeleteI expect it's stuck on "1". I'm glad you found your way here! :-)
ReplyDeleteThanks for the welx, Marty and Mama Zen!
I would have said welcome back too if I had been here. I had a bit of an adventure - my wallet and i.d. stolen, and the flight cancelled 'til the next day. But now I am thankfully home, and rested enough to visit again.
ReplyDeleteYour poetry is amazing.
your poetry IS amazing.
ReplyDeleteI am so glad you are back and posting. Being starved of your poetic genius is not a good thing!
ReplyDeleteThis is one of your better poems.
ReplyDeleteTarot-Jesus... *chuckles* - even if i am not meant to! That's the beauty of what you write, laughing at the pain, is the route to healing. Almost makes it seem all worth it, to have a gem like this! A gift from the shadows to shine a light on our lives. The more you write, the more 'we' know we are not alone. Bravo. Kx
ReplyDeleteWelcome home, Shrinky. I am sorry to hear about your wallet and flight troubles. Craggy Island was surely dull in your absence.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Erin. :-)
(((((((((('elen))))))))))) Thanks, sweetheart. Mwah!
Thanks Blackbird. :-)
I seem to do that to you all the time, don't I, K, make you laugh amid the horror! I remember being a teenager and knowing I had the words, and wanting to write, but not feeling that i had anything much to say. Now i am (lots) older and have lots to say, but it has mostly been dearly bought. The entire point, besides working out my own dramas by writing, is surely to say, yes, me too, it feels just like this. (((((((K))))))))
You have such a genius way with words!
ReplyDeleteOooo, pour the sand from our hearts.
ReplyDeleteShay - you amaze me!
Actually Shay , I think is my favorite poem of yours so far.
ReplyDeleteFanks, Kitty!
ReplyDeleteJannie, I sort of cannibalized the "sand" bit from an earlier, lesser poem. I think it portrays a certain grinding messed-up feeling perfectly, so I reworked it here. Wow, Finster's fave! I musta done goooood. :-)
Funster, I meant. There's another "bord" on a wire lol.
ReplyDelete