BFP Sunday Poetry: Waiting for the Signal

Waiting For The Signal

These pages that bring us together
are the fire in the cave above the stream,
no dream we move in and out of, faceless,
expendable, waiting for a burst of wings
to spill our pooled bones like coins
over the chilled and silent ground
we fell in love with so long ago,
singing the green hills homeward
under that shovel-shouldered sun.

Fatigue works grim the stone of souls.
No talk is needed to believe the bleeding
will be ours all too soon. Needled dust,
that settled itself in naive lungs, cut
with each rasp, yet the bleeding
wasn't stemmed. Quick, black tongues
flicked from windows, floors below dustified
slabs, while the Street slumped with peanuts
and a beer, cheering each new diversion.

In our rush of voices a stream curses
the murmur of pines. In our names,
what we begged for never to be done,
is done with no shame. And the day
drags its blindered self to toil. Night trades
whiskey pete for oil, while down slope,
death-drummer birds with blazing eyes
ascend the holy crags to kill dissent
before we waking innocent arise.

-G. Karl Marcus

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Comments

  1. Great imagery – I can imagine this being read by Peter B to music to a backdrop of one of remo’s 9/11 themed paintings.

    Have you ever noticed that if you say coin repeatedly, you sound like a pig?

  2. Thanks for the fine poem. It is good to give our situation this expression, sad though it be. Like having Dover Beach. We have at least each other. The fire in the cave above the stream. It’s what we have.

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