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Poems of Introspection
Behind the mask
Look into the candle's flame,
see its core,
that cone of blue transparent air,
as it struggles to breathe,
struggles to shine
while the white and the orange
vie with each other to capture the eye.
Hugging the limelight;
their brilliance obscures,
overwhelming our senses.
Encompassed,
surrounded by the outer flame,
the inner light is of a cooler,
different meat;
a different temper;
but once seen,
will fascinate far longer.
Though none may know our minds
and not be scorched,
it still remains the only thing
I recommend a child should seek.
Elementary Ethics
The cat was hungry;
the bird was too;
the worm wriggled on in search of food.
The bird did not see the cat,
but you saw it all.
And one must die.
The cat crouched low;
the bird cocked an ear;
the worm wriggled on....
You know so much?
It's your turn to choose.
Children in a Playground
Ringing screams of ring a' roses
Pockets full of joy, unremarked.
The Continuum
Each day we live some otherness dies;
until we die, we eat the living.
Yesterday, I ate plant roots
and meat from slaughtered beasts;
today I eat soft mushrooms.
Sometimes I take from crying babes.
Until we die, we crush the oppressed;
yesterday, a sweated black-eyed Hindu boy,
some days a virgin Taiwanese.
Until we die we eat the living
and seldom taste their bile.
Thus, artfully, dead and living fuse.
The earth awaits; our flesh grows fat;
it plumps and grows to decompose
within that mouldering maw
where all is food for something's mouth.
Ode of a Humpty Grumpty
Amazed by mewling stars untouched by time,
(Still puking, young as ever), wise men don't fear
Old bony death. And age can seem sublime
When shifted to the lean and slippered year,
A welcome bay of calm; though loss of sense
To music, passion, song and laughter, kiss
Of wife and daughters, sun and rain, commence
To haunt him now. No man's prepared for this.
Wrapped in vinegar and soft brown paper
Half his battling breadth; nevertheless, how
(Not why, or if) to applaud the lifelong caper
Is what preoccupies his gazing, now
He knows no sages, poets, no singing men,
Can put Humpty Grumpty together again.
Hope Springs ...
We hide our dead in haste
yet there on the blossom-heavy bough,
among the quickening flowers,
naked for all to see,
hangs one rotten fruit.
It goes tardy to its grave.
But graves are patient.
Gaunt and gibbeted
this fruit of last year's cradling
is gnarled and shrunken now,
shrivelled to a crinkled black;
yet home still,
still among its nascent cousins.
And though no starker sign
could show more clear
the outcome of their enterprise
(for it's no perpetual suffering Christ
who dangles on their tree till doom),
the siren blossoms sing their song
to conspiratorial bees.
A busying murmur speaks eternal:
bring out your living,
hang garlands on the trees.
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© S. T. Hedges 2007
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