cornfields on the tile
i took a year to finish this damn thing, glad its over.
• severe distress
• not functioning sufficiently to sustain life unaided
• feeding tube, mechanical respiration, chemical induced coma
• 6:13 pm, December 18, 2006 . full stop.
• As Noted by, Dr. M. Hallar M.D.
the space between
me
and the great out there.
the poppy moon comes,
crickets fill the corn.
tinker on sickle teeth
gnaw my moments torn.
she whispers,
"go to sleep little angel."
"go to sleep little one."
she embraces a stray hair.
my
fingertips float just above,
her soft husk love.
she cuts back my field rot in peat,
for a wince of a smile,
Eden stains my feet.
what would she do
to save me?
i wonder.
swing me around,
and around,
and around,
october fields forever
and ever
but,
the willow owl speaks
"sooner
than never.
never in
sleep. "
Don't cry Brother,
Bring back my voice Mother.
Promise me Father,
to carry me Home.
ma has,
pillows to fluff. socks to fold. hyms from her lips. eyes salt cold.
pa has tiles to count and recount.
i can hear him,
"one, two, three,"
"child come back to me..."
"four, five, six, seven,"
"angels aren't tellin'."
"eight, nine, ten, eleven,"
"cornfields in heaven."
he doesn't know.
I am still here and listening below.
the ghost arrives
right on time.
a last chance meeting
in the final decline.
four in the morning,
the end of December.
the captin' with the bullet hole barely remembers.
this hospital room, tiled and so tight
his final grunting frenzy at the
end of his fight.
he limps away holding his flag
dropping on his knees
with his tears in a bag,
for me.
Don't cry Brother,
Bring back my voice Mother.
Promise me Father,
to carry me Home.
stars climb into my bed
pull forward
and far away
where the wide corn lake
calls me to lay.
your soft voices
are all I can hear,
ringing in my ears.
bringing me to tears.
the yellow tide
is highest now.
i mutter.
i pray.
i am small.
i am but
a bubble in the clay.
a beetle in the hay.
the ground is shaking,
i hear them sound the alarm.
i feel pain,
don't let go of my arm.
Don't let go of my arm.
burn out the sun
turn off all the lights.
I am on the run
see it in my eyes.
if everything i have is
slipping away
know that i meant
" until my dying day"
shrill as a choir of children
this deep and damned feeling
of heaven
falls to the arms of
this manned engine
my breathing to subtle
to mention
i am the pale moon
i am the
lightest yellow of the field.
in the West the sun is shining
Back in the East the lights are lying
i won't stop trying
to open my eyes.
my fingers move.
Don't cry Brother,
Bring back my voice Mother.
Promise me Father,
to carry me Home.
Comments
Emeya on Mar. 12 edit · delete "This is about many things...but mostly it is about hope." -- yes, I think you quite summed it up there.
There's a lot of strong sentiment and family history here, things that are imbedded in our bones, things we want to say but can't. It's beautiful, significant and touching. I also like the earthy quality of it, the gentle portrayals of nature throughout bring on a strong sense of placement, but not necessarily where you stand in it. The strength of connection is amazing. Like you are watching, even trying to prevent, but can we really? There's trying to carry and wishing to be carried and finding the balance between the two. The cadence, as well, gives the piece great movement. There is a lot to be gained from reading this and I have nothing to suggest and only a small nit-pick:
"my breathing to subtle" -- should be "too"
Beautiful write,
Emeya
