Monday, August 17, 2009

Cry of an Apache Rain

A soft spoken mountain man,
a real butte
dusted in coal clad dreams
of a pipe and a fiddling,
a nursery rhythm of
flowering trees
in a rebuke of nitrous
manure; the playing
of pinochle from
a pasty of pope
in a shale filled lunch box.

Edgy in a mumbled sentence
of illogical rightfulness,
swaying in balding
sad eyed wonder...
what went... wrong?
as the world raced on,
he slowed to a crawl
of cynic lefty,
shouting slurs at a TV
that no longer cared
bout truth...

Rain on an Apache plain...
it was supposed to be palliative,
radiating a scalp of speculative
knowledge in an excruciating
twist of a broken neck...

Tuffs of hair fell out
as a second torture-
I felt his pain in the recapture
of a howling cry.

We as dancing Matildas
relied on morphine and grace
to set things right...
we shared a Guinness
by the light and song of a rose
garden and fallen tree...

There is peace to be made
in this broken world,
at least he knew the meaning of pal
if only for a moment.

A patch of forgiveness
and acceptance is all he sought
from that fearful cry.

Dry eyed, I kept his promise secret.
The rains will come again.

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