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looking at my hands after another morning with my chain saw out in our woodlot....cursing at the MO...squitos...somehow came up with this
SPEAKING IN TONGUES
after morning of bending and strains
smothering denunciations of pain
the ghosts of three dead poets listened
hearing the voices not believing
blinking to the braided trite realities
of some church of language
speaking in tongues
rolling their eyes
flailing their arms
with jagged lines of poetic justice
rejoicing in their emptiness
playing harmonicas with no hands
learning the secret of speaking
through abstract words of death
expressed in some jazz muse
rising and falling with all the church members
guided by the ability to tell the phonies from reality
and the paramedics waiting outside
with poet doctors laying on of hands
unable to speak in tongues
only a new presence of poetry
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13 comments:
Wayne
Nicely written piece.
Pamela
Strong work, Wayne!
Love this bit:
blinking to the braided trite realities
of some church of language
Nicely done!
Liked the flow..
designed patterns
I like the pace of this. Favourite line: lines of poetic justice
An excellent post, Wayne! =)
-Weasel
Must have been the buzz of the chain saw still ringing in your ears, Wayne! Glad you were "smothering denunciations of pain"!
My favorite line is the last... 'only a new presence of poetry'...
A surprising take on this prompt!
This piece is fascinating, Wayne!
Intriguing and enjoyable!
Ah, manual labor can create some ecstatic moments of poetic contrivance :)
the healers, without the gift of tongues, get laying on of hands? not shabby
I speak double dutch sometimes....
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