Tuesday, June 7, 2022

PARTICOLOURED TEARS ARE FALLING THROUGH THE EVENING, BLIND

 

[small prelude on the pianoforte, for Ray Bradbury, gone: 

August 22,1920 - June 5,2012]


oh all the rainbows have fallen into the

earth, headfirst-

and "snow without Christmas" as he cried

has stunned his sometimed midnight's

sunned chorales.


but - even now-

when the first curled handbell of grief is

chimed, at times, magnolia creamery of the

long before, 

you're still in business


on the ivory keys of snowconed pages turning

in the lock

or filtering round pure

apricot sparkles down

oh God knows how-

my shuttered April mind.


it's wondering I dream to find

no new poet laureate of the homesick, but

distraught cloud horses whinnying on their own

in

folds of cerulean, coral, forestalled-

with storied apples offered: oh wrought of a

banished gold-

(as they are now) -

to keep them home.


the day wears on…we won't know clearly now

when dark ferrised earth kept turning into...

blossom ladened trees renew their snow and

petal the sweetheart mourning: "morning

minstrelsy is dead" throughout the vacant

orchards but is she

pale pink surprised into carmine-

by valentines received

in the afternoon mail

from one thought dead…? 


while we as we behold through a looking glass

pinhole in the constellations: 

his ice-cream coloured trollies

hauling back and forth

new circuses of sighs and working prisms-


("dewdrop, listen"…he whispered so we wouldn't

forget you ever-

or children would just let go and all at the

same time

their last balloons losing everything then

it felt that way, to them…) 


It's got to be now on Opal Rails

somewhere else, going on…

couch this in bluebirds and hydrangeas…

and cool cups of lilied moonlight on the grass

of other planets looking just like home


held higher above our heads than these dreams

have ever been before: long

past the vast pinwheeled parades of the

strolling musicians, musicless


on earth, 


but not where motley is torn-

its falling its falling through the evening

blind

and near

our particoloured tears, unending…


for the something unsurpassed

and all, all-in-all at last…

caught by a weeping God in a ruby red bottle-

the best firefly of the whole Summer…


mary angela douglas 14 june 2012 1: 49 p.m.

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