As the yawning sun staggers up

A poem published by Mojave Heart Review. Original link was here (no longer valid).

If the link is broken, you can read it below.


As the yawning sun staggers up


As the yawning sun staggers up
the glistening icy mountain top,
and the night’s stained glass cup
reaches its last drop,
the day wakes with the morning’s sharp light
and raises the Earth for its daily plight.

Dew-jewelled grass stalks surrender
their borrowed crowns to the grumpy,
cranky howling of the night’s-worn bartender.
Blossomed rings, proudly painted, colour the ugly
sun-starved mountain plains; tower above the unmade
dull green masses to decorate the nature’s recent burial ground.

Sulks the abandoned lake, yearns
for the love of his great brothers and sisters
on the other parts of earth, as famished farms
horn him against the valley’s green glisters.
Adrift alone, early morning prayers do not deliver him a storm
for he still remains but a single, tiny drop.

A group of boys rush past the bank of the great lagoon,
careful not to slip and ruin their newly bought pairs of pantaloons.
A coloured string of paper, atop a worn old stick, shrieks the tune,
horrid and mute, as it slithers from the hands of these mad buffoons.
Loud, worried shouts echo down the sleepy vale,
foreshadowed warnings of the dim, worried fate.

Laughs and cries tiptoe on the vivid fabric of the frosty blue;
leap over the white birch, red oak and the splendid maple trees
on the other side of this large teardrop; and up, to caress the crew
of birds; ravens, gyrfalcons, merlins all come out to dance in the fresh spring breeze.

But it is the new age. Foreign, ferried pairs of horns carry the smell;
greens anointed as horse-drawn carts toil the land; sprinkled smoke
smears the white of ice and dusts the leafy peaks. Holy bell
muffles chirping of the birds; and murky water is the final masterstroke
of the man-made cloak that shadows over to takeover. The land no longer clean,
unscathed, untouched, unspoiled, untamed.
Cured of purity and unmarked with chaste – it is already claimed
as the night drips back into the light;
and as the sound of bell axes the strings of day,
it carries a message:

Nature’s own death knell.

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