Sunday Poetry Series: Opus 61

The Peace Tree is proud to present a piece by our newest Peace Tree Poets Society member, Bill Epler. Bill is currently in the process of creating his own blog and we will be making the announcement of his Grand Opening with attendant links in the very near future. Until then we are very pleased to present his work here for your enjoyment.

and now....

Opus 61
By W. Christopher Epler

the morning emerges from yesterday's resignations

and struggles to meet the day vertically and combed.

snowflakes of the night,

now melted into irrelevance,

no longer blind us with revelations

and the day awaits bipedal outpourings

onto the atmosphere floor.

a black comb in the boy's pocket

bulges slightly

and catches on drawers when he walks too close,

inconveniencing parent policed,

rushing to school trajectories,

but not defining his life into grandparent non futures

since relatives for him drop off the edge of the world

with no particular fanfare.

but grandparents remember still, occasionally,

snowstorms and kitchens of long ago schoolings:

scolding teachers, homework dungeons, and Christmas holidays

now lost beyond lostness,

lost beyond anticipation, commitment, or someone else's prayers

and exquisitely unimaginable to their own children's grudging paybacks.

these sighing epiphanies are flavored with tutored acceptance,

but never with smiles.

the boy’s school is a warehouse of cross talking pandemonium

in which taller and heavier life forms

perform pedagogical rituals which they never took seriously either

and the boy learns far more about what the grownups don't know

than what they, never convincingly,

claim to know with such absolute certainty.

this lesson requires no homework and is never forgotten.

the boy starts to breathe again

the moment he leaves these peculiar factories

and surrenders while walking home to a calling ancientness

which encourages him to bite off small branches overhanging the sidewalk

just for the animal hell of it.

he does so

and spits

and much prefers this jaw living

to the escaped again chalkboard comas.

in jungle summers he sometimes visits dry creek beds

slightly out of town,

memory innocent, adult less, and usually alone

exploring alternative realities

unimaginable to philosophers and businessmen.

breathing and eyes only remain

when merging into these insect glorias and heat saturated weeds,

antidote dimensions to the clutchings of language drunk adults

-- the dead eyed ones who think they're alive

but feed on the earth magic of children.

in early teens he bicycles to small rivers of privacy

into which he abandonly walks

otter nude and sun alive

and drifts beyond the consensus insanities of the world.

the mud moves between his toes

while currents embracing his utter body

propel him through adventures with logs, leaves,

even turtles, and pell mell turnings.

the sky is plane less, the sounds aren't man made.

he has come home.

in due course the booming advice guns

of head livers

penetrate his very castle,

there to echo unceasingly,

contemptuously ignored only by his loins

which remain invincibly memory proof.

the open winged,

sky eyed living of boyhood

shrinks to a bubble of jabber

claiming to be a soul,

an ache of lost wildness

which breaks the hearts of angels.

oh, young boy, young man,

how right you were about everything,


and everything.


Peace y'all

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