blank-faced
yellow-haired
nourished by rain and rot,
they leave room for nothing else
save rats and borers
giddy with vicarious triumph.
Here is the butter-bland vision,
every bloom the same,
all weedy twist of grasping arms
cradling babbling seed-faces
with their cheap coronas.
Already dying,
their identical progeny prop them up,
unremarkable,
invasive,
stone-stupid,
legion.
_____
for Flash 55
and Sunday Muse #123.
You have pinned the tail on the donkey in the most brilliant poetic way ever my friend! Even in the dark you shine bright!!
ReplyDeleteOr on the elephant, perhaps.
ReplyDeleteShay--I just finished the book written by Trump's niece. This poem really fits the current state of our country...
ReplyDeleteOh, yes. Babbling seed faces, sound and fury signifying nothing. But deadly dangerous, because unevolved.
ReplyDeleteYeah, you nail it here Shay. The whole thing is one stabbing, seamless metaphor closing in on the shriveled field of dreamless nightmare that is the fugue state of now. That second stanza lifted my neck hairs. And no wonder we feel outnumbered dealing with barrenness as vast as the sunflower fields of Kansas. Just over the moon and stars with the bar again, and in 55, which makes it even more kickass.
ReplyDelete"the butter-bland vision" too much credit, no? I love the invasive stupidity in the last stanza.
ReplyDeleteForgot to mention, PERFECT title.
ReplyDelete*Snort* Pinned the tail on the elephant.
ReplyDeleteSpot on, from the identical, unremarkable, invasive, and the dying propped up by their progeny.
Well done, you.
Seconding that the title is amazing. And the poem itself captures that zombie sameness, the dullness that allows for violence because...just because.
ReplyDeleteYou really captured the “down” impression of the photo quite powerfully Shay. Strong!
ReplyDeleteGee, and I loved the sunflower fields, and I find their seeds quite a treat. Oh, sigh, mayhap I should join the stone stupid legion ....
ReplyDeleteYou've summed up the days we live in perfectly. I am heavy with worry, with my face searching the dirt to see if I the single seed of hope I have on my tongue can find a place in the rot to grow.
ReplyDeleteA beautifully rendered metaphor for ‘where we are.’
ReplyDelete"Here is the butter-bland vision,
ReplyDeleteevery bloom the same,
all weedy twist of grasping arms
cradling babbling seed-faces
with their cheap coronas."
Our world summed up and stuffed down our throats. Excellent, Shay!
I can't help but think that those on this farm are celebrating tonight, with RBG's passing.
ReplyDelete