Post by bluebird on Jan 27, 2019 20:01:53 GMT -5
I've had a poem about the west coast migration of Monarch Butterflies in my "hopper" for years, ever since I saw
the ankle deep bodies of them though the trees were still full of more who would soon fall to ground. I have a long
way to go to craft the poem I want about this...here is just one draft of possibility.
Migration
We silver locked hipsters, our tie-dyed
or madras shirts and skirts,
our arms around each other's
waists and shoulders, climb
at midnight to the Pacific Highway,
steal by moonlight, the sign directing
strangers to the one road down
to our Bolinas; sacred, funky town.
July 3rd we prepare for backyard
sizzlers and smoke and homemade
wine; unmeasured, uninterrupted
time in hammock sway
between whispers from ocean and
aromatic trees.
We guard these private days
to be like the originals of this place,
able to hear butterflies speak.
Celebrate not mourn spent wings
that turn the heart of summer
into autumn here. Our falling,
leaves our future thick as gold
dust sparks upon your sand and
trees.
See how these blades of edible
leaves
glint like glass afire,
as we lay new selves
while burning up,
evaporating like foam on sea.
We float upon this place,
to duplicate our blueprints,
our original shapes
as we escape
the efforts of our journey now,
dropping ourselves at
your naked and hip feet.
Step into us as you do surfeit
that swallows light after all
bloody fights against surrender.
We do and gladly too, lay down ourselves
for our next generation;
the miraculous
one destined to fly
three thousand miles from this sequestering,
this gift of inter-species understanding
that ensures the birth
of thin crawling things we know will
in their future possess fragile, fire bright,
tinsel strength wings to fly them
to the Sierra Madras for a feast near
active volcanoes and then, emboldened
by such power in the ground, fly up
and return as strong as their ancient
migration towards true north.
the ankle deep bodies of them though the trees were still full of more who would soon fall to ground. I have a long
way to go to craft the poem I want about this...here is just one draft of possibility.
Migration
We silver locked hipsters, our tie-dyed
or madras shirts and skirts,
our arms around each other's
waists and shoulders, climb
at midnight to the Pacific Highway,
steal by moonlight, the sign directing
strangers to the one road down
to our Bolinas; sacred, funky town.
July 3rd we prepare for backyard
sizzlers and smoke and homemade
wine; unmeasured, uninterrupted
time in hammock sway
between whispers from ocean and
aromatic trees.
We guard these private days
to be like the originals of this place,
able to hear butterflies speak.
Celebrate not mourn spent wings
that turn the heart of summer
into autumn here. Our falling,
leaves our future thick as gold
dust sparks upon your sand and
trees.
See how these blades of edible
leaves
glint like glass afire,
as we lay new selves
while burning up,
evaporating like foam on sea.
We float upon this place,
to duplicate our blueprints,
our original shapes
as we escape
the efforts of our journey now,
dropping ourselves at
your naked and hip feet.
Step into us as you do surfeit
that swallows light after all
bloody fights against surrender.
We do and gladly too, lay down ourselves
for our next generation;
the miraculous
one destined to fly
three thousand miles from this sequestering,
this gift of inter-species understanding
that ensures the birth
of thin crawling things we know will
in their future possess fragile, fire bright,
tinsel strength wings to fly them
to the Sierra Madras for a feast near
active volcanoes and then, emboldened
by such power in the ground, fly up
and return as strong as their ancient
migration towards true north.
