Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Night Dances

The trees are dancing
tonight. They shed red
and yellow leaves to be
woven by birds into crowns
for the outcasts, come morning.

I watch him sleep,
rage finally drained
from his face and
dragged off like foul
meat by mongrel ghost-dogs
to their secret hideaways.

Once, this man held
my arm when I stumbled.
Once this man sang a song
to the stars to lift
the hem of my sadness.

My footsteps come slower now.
Loneliness cuts a wider
swathe through the darkness.
I have lost my way in the
maze of signs, all claiming
to mark the road home.

9 comments:

Maegan N. Murray said...

that is a beautiful poem. have you ever been published? do you have any books?

Pat Paulk said...

"...dragged off like foul
meat by mongrel ghost-dogs
to their secret hideaways". Fantastic line of poetry!! Glad I came back tonight.

Pris said...

Hi Meagan
I have a chapbook. You'll see the link and ordering information for Abrasions (the title) in my righthand column and yes, I've published quite a bit. Right now, I'm in the current issue of Mipo, the women's issue, and Niederngasse. I also have a haiga in Mindfire, just out. Among other journals are Thunder Sandwich, Verse Libre, Erosha, some print compilations. If you find the current journals I named, you'll see my bio there. Thanks for asking and appreciating.

Pat,
Sometimes I do my next day's blog in the evenings, so you caught me:-) Thanks for your comment.

loisseau said...

Fine writing!

Jim

Pris said...

Thanks, Jim. I'd been wondering if you were okay I hadn't seen you around in so long.

Michael Parker said...

Again, this is just superb! Great work.

Pris said...

Thanks, Michael...I saw your comment on MySpace , too, and appreciated it. You have a great one there now, your new one!

Geoff Sanderson said...

Sadness, veiled anger, nostalgia all mingle most beautifully in this poem, Pris. What a pity, that great poetry often comes only at the expense of emotional pain.

I've never experienced any great sadness, that's my trouble.

Pris said...

You're fortunate, g. And you do write good poetry!