July 2019
Bionote: Here is a taste of my "Speech Scroll." Around the turn of the year I set out to write a long poem in eighteen-line sections. It has grown beyond a hundred of them by now, and although I set out with no specific themes I anticipated getting many a start from looking out of the window and around the house, where vistas invariably led me to greater issues. Certain themes resurface, and I'm sending three sections from around the middle of what I have to date.
(51)
The street is awake
before daylight. The asphalt wants
to be a mountain trail
and climb to see the sun rise
but the sidewalks are tired
and ache where once they curved
their way with no effort from
48th Street to the cul-de-sac.
Beneath the quiet darkness
the sewer pipes are longing
for relief. At four twenty-three
an insomniac car runs to where
it has to turn back and is condemned
to search for whatever movement
means. Otherwise, the street lamps
glow, and waiting outside every house
for the garbage truck are the bins
filled with yesterday’s headaches.
(52)
The promise of salvation blows
from house to house this morning
but nobody opens to receive it.
Everyone is busy
with the present life, pulling weeds,
a shopping list, or taking in the latest news
which doesn’t suggest many
will be saved today. Still, the promise
insists on keeping on
with a smile on its face
and a pamphlet whose words
read as a weather map
for the soul. A storm is passing
around the world; no place of worship
is safe; no system of belief offers shelter;
even the prayers of coyotes
go up to the moon and return
unanswered.
(53)
An acrid smell drifts across
the lower slopes early
and the rising sun shines through
a smoky veil unraveling
east to west. It lingers like
the aftershock to violence
committed far away. Spring flowers
are blooming, migrant flocks
are circling the Earth,
fire trucks race
toward Baseline and Rural, and
winter’s last cough greets
the day. There’s mallow
in the canyons and malice
in a bitter heart. Sometimes
the planet is a spinning top
and the Devil’s got the whip. He’s read
the manifesto and he’s armed.
© 2019 David Chorlton
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