Wednesday, May 1, 2013

A Pretty Good Ditch

The ditch continues to inspire, taking on a meaning of its own. Here is a poem by my friend, Feral Willcox

A Pretty Good Ditch

In deer tongue, speak to me of summer
warming rim of trapdoor sun flowering
rayless across polygala lute-strung tunes
spun in open worship, lovely blueheart stung
awake by bristle, by brine and horrible thistle. Now
be gentle with me; little metalmark stretch out
the white headthoughts and their trains, longleafed
and violet as spindle veins; break me away
from fear bane, flea blame hopping
from name to name, no mercy in ladies’ tresses,
orchid on the grave of indoor friends, wooly
with mullein comfort and bogged in buttons,
zippers spidering up the guts of judges’ purses
webbing over sundew, dwarfed by the towering
warts of saints, johnpaulpeter and their bobs
for gaura floating in the oakleaves. Now
I am gone from church rooms and the greymile
tombs of highways, out
into the Temple.

~Feral Willcox

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