P. James McCord writes,
Caves
but for all those twisting tunnels,
stalactooned and misty-moist,
(where ghosty happenedings hide)
lair of barely-something thoughts,
those delve-deeped, dripped, sunk-secret caves
of my mind –
perhaps you might have seen it too
(I mean that far-off, shining hope
I tried to make you understand).
oh well.
it shimmered,
blue amid the sands,
and drained into unspoken lands.
Easter Island
roll o’er, rising
flush with sky
colors spritzed and cold
against that mystic king-cream
mountain-cloud
that swirls his warm breath over me
roll, roll on, roll over rising
backdrop of the sun-cracked trees
presents me like some meagre sacrifice
alone before this ancient tide -
a small, tear-beaded statue on a
time-soaked shore
loll and fritz-roll
living pink-skied sea!
bid my thoughts be still
before your splash-spread, mute monotony -
pouring out some barbarous peace
quell such civil blasphemies
