V.85

The cold warriors are dying
Amongst events they slip away
like the crackle of a spray can
and its hiss which turns to a roar

The cold warriors are dying
The second movement of Dvorák
lingers in the musky swampland
of Florida, among torn flags

The cold warriors are dying
falling away one by sad one
like mist withdrawing from windows
leaving thin dilemmas for drips

The cold warriors are dying
their children are melancholy
unsure quite what this means to them,
despite, of course, a soft fizzing

The cold warriors are dying
for arguments cannot outlast.
The eyes of history open
and see streaming neon glazes

The cold warriors are dying
gears that have not turned for long years
shift and let off streams of gold rust
Things are glowing with potential

The Forest

The Tree says “Down! – thee
seeds and sapling usurpers
“I am the root and I the purpose
“Know my bark, it keeps me strong.”
And murders them with shadows long.

The saplings and the seeds chant –
“Up! – up the republic of growth
“Of varied ideas, and new things here below
“Until the wood is filled with variety
“Old bark can stay – but we’ll have our society.”

The forest is filled with kinds of desire
But all must drink – and bathe in the sun
The far spread shadows are death to some
“Until the dark dawn of some great forest fire”

Some hope to spark, to get underway
The falling, the ashes, it tends to gestate
Grand ideas of a sunlit glade
Though dappled light seems the best some can await –

Born as they are with stunted branch
Or lack of structured niche or dance
They tend to fall back on the law of the light –
that when shadow is cast, those in shadow must fight.

Either starving dark amongst the shoots
Or taking as model the climbing vine
Or cutting the old bark down to size
Or grouping and starving the heartless old roots
To scatter light out from the leaves of the few.