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the isms of a Cretan poet

It seems we are conditioned
So that the rendition we chime
Is the vocal phrased phor us
Performed without question
Shouting stone deaf –

“Yes Sir! Off key!”

The flick of the ‘a’
The curve of the ‘e’
Entirely predicable
And monotonous
All material
So that we ‘The Mongrel’ –

“Heal. Play dead. Sit.
Heal. Play dead…”

For a reward
Less gold medallion
More plated prison
A hollow fortress built
Of porous pumice walls
A biscuit crumbling
Down
Our
Shirt
Leaving a stain
All together inedible.

We look down to see
But sharply are diverted
Our heads lifted to the sound
Of high pitched piercing
The wind whistles through –

“Good dog” With hammer in hand
“Good dog. Keep your head bowed”

And we obey.
And we hasten.

But wait –
What is that prickling?
A spine rising chill
As arctic ice breaking
Bridging our backs high
Lifting hair from skin
For once our own puppet
Suspending us hanging
If only for a moment
From plunging deep
Deep

It hums.
Listen –

“Our legs are weak
Our senses dulled
But a blade sharply waiting
To carve a life whole
To eat the fish raw
Caught of our own hands
And tasted
Without the hollow bones
Sticking our throats
Allowing our loud howls
In unison and alone
That we are nourished now
With what matters most”

Comments

2 Comments

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  1. March 19, 2014

    New Poem. It’s been a while. It’s inspired by the idea that we tick along with the blinkers on sometimes. We seem to strive for ‘more more more’ without question. Just maybe we’re better than that? Maybe we have more to give to ourselves and the world around us? Maybe it’s just a matter of at least having our eyes open and really choosing how we step forward? I hope you enjoy 🙂

  2. Coralie Astrinakis #
    March 19, 2014

    Katie
    Your thoughts are so deep and meaningful

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