Involution

 

It is assumed

Conched apertures were places of worship,

Where gods sprang into being,

Weapon of choice in hand,

At the foot of a battle that would be

Writ and molded with the passage of

Bogged epochs: Mendacity birthed by

The confessions of lazy prophets.

 

What one hand doubts

The other hand heals.

 

It is concrete what false dwellings are

Remembered for, swaying lighthouses

Against quiet storms that sheltered trust as

They shattered against the holes they left

In their wake; rotting Adam was

Lightning fast with denials as his

Less-informed brothers raped the last of

Their sainted mothers.

 

What one hand doubts

The other hand heals.

 

It is known that

Panaceas are time out of mind; heavenly

Refulgence, backlit against a stage set for

Violence, will be reward enough when the

Incestuous daughters of misery are born.

Lambs will learn new skills in the absence of

Lion shaped opportunities: No longer would

They hide under rock or dark cavern.

 

What one hand doubts

The other hand heals.

 

It is understood knowledge
Creates its own reward; our fathers wrote what

They wanted us to believe but we have surpassed

Their inability to seed clouds with lightning; we are

Minor gods who split the atom in the name of forward

Momentum, fault-ridden arguments, and now we

Stand, back straight, and count the toes we gained in

Our quest for perfected ignorance.

 

What one hand doubts

The other hand heals.

 

(17 Jan. 2008)

Francisco

This is damn good. A darkly sophisticated and profound piece of poetry- This is familiar in the sense that the theme of this piece hits on the thematic coloring of what I write - While I wax in melodramatic and simplistic language to tell my story this is done with finesse an a artful use of the language- loved it...

 

 

my warmest

bob