The face of my mother. . .
the face of my father. . .
the face of my brother–
all of these
I see in the mirror. . .

Struggling hard
not to be dusted
under the rug,
or smothered,

or pecked through
to shreds,
as two big egret babes
do to the wee other,

a soft downed holocaust
dropped in the jaw
of the low waiting gator,
lurking and watching
in the just off-shore water,
that happily smacks
its lips and big teeth,
and then turns,
with a paddle of feet
and a whip
of a scaly tail rudder. . .

Bloodlines streak strong
and streak thin,
but not all will go on
in long association
along with the ones
with whom they begin. . .

the struggles for love and for life
have, as their end,
that some merely lose,
and others, just or un-,

But with the best spots
in our immortal souls,
we may just well conquer
that mean, mundane scene,

and transform the ruins
and ashes and coals,
into a shining flesh life,
once or twice,

when we muster the strength,
though we do not forget,
to forgive,

and shine our best light,
straight through the past dark,
in such a way that we show
all the cruel pits and crevices
of our past-carved status quo,

as we splash it brand clean
and let our eye see,
aim and know,
with a different spin.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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