Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Long Gone Days

Here they are, these
travelers, old and
in pain from the
journey, promises
they no longer believe
hanging about their
necks like grinding
wheels, shouting
into the open
spaces of the desert
until their throats
bleed, until the
blood surges and
rushes in their
ears, until they
must cling to
each other to keep
from falling,
but there is no
answer, no ear
but their own,
blunted and
vague from the
years, ringing
with tinnitus,
and their hands
are like claws,
wanting and grasping
at the uncaring
day as it dies,
wishing only for
some small part
of the promise to
be true, knowing
now that, if ever
these oaths were
kept, if ever these
dreams were whole,
that day has long
since gone.


drthunder said...

Hey, Bud. This really sounds sad. Oy vey! Such tsimmmis!

Bobby-T said...

I can't help but wonder. What promises? Certainly there are false promises. Perhaps the ones that seem to glitter most are the ones one should eschew, for therein is disappontment. The simple and basic promises ought to be enough for the day.

Firehawk said...


Tsimmmis? Que?


With a long enough time scale, most promises are false. As far as which ones I'm talking about here, that's for the reader to supply. I don't want to superimpose my outward thoughts here, but to call to an "open wildcard" within anyone who reads the poem. I think poetry is always about what the reader thinks it's about, anyway. After the poet finishes with it, the piece no longer belongs to him. It's a leaf on the wind.

Good to hear from the both of you. Take care.

MB said...

Oof, it is bleak. There are many possible promises. And then there are some promises that may never have truly been made, were only thought to have been made — those might be the hardest of all.