The Morning of the Hurricanes

The Bishops bathe in Babylon

while Princes, prancing on the lawn,

watch Queen deflowered, pale and wan.

            The King dares not defend her.

The Horsemen, holding broken reins

the Morning of the Hurricanes,

sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,

            the Saints will soon surrender”.

They wonder why they ever came,

they have No One whom they can blame,

they have no face, they have no name,

            and even less, a gender.

The empty-handed Vagabonds

smoke stale cigars, stroke faded Blondes

while waiting at the walls beyond,

            but kneel as Chaos enters.

They’re gazing through the window panes

in hopes that distant Hurricanes

will twist and break their iron chains

            defying life’s tormentors.

The Fantom of the Opera frowns

as feeble minded Cleric-clowns

mouth hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds

           when blessing doomed dissenters.

The Pirate wields a wooden leg,

with pupils dull and visage vague,

and if by chance he spreads the plague,

            it really doesn’t matter.

His Princess, pale, no longer feigns,

foresees instead (down ancient lanes)

the coming of the Hurricanes -

            the Stones stir, staring at her.

And Jackals scrape the river bed 

as Savants soothe the underfed

and Crows, collecting scattered bread,

            adorn, with crumbs, the platter.

The Jokers Wild and One Eyed Janes

weep, winding up in rundown trains

mid whispers of the Hurricanes,

            and Priests refuse to christen.

They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,

the cuckoo birds, the dying swans;

while pitching pennies into ponds

            their eyes opaquely glisten.

The spectral Clocks with spindled spokes

remind the Mimes to tell the  Folks

the time of day and other jokes,

            yet No One looks to listen.

The Hunchbacks with contorted canes

galumph before the Hurricanes, 

in melted sleet, in frozen rains,

            in bruised and battered sandals.

Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,

the land of stones, the land of nulls,

and lurk between the blackened lulls, 

            for Nighttime brooks no candles.

Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,

(and other long forgotten Spooks)

are more than random crazed rebukes,

            though taunting to the Vandals.

The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,

and broken Children, Chambermaids,

are running wild from wraiths, afraid

            of dreams where death redoubles.

They fritter time with tattered threads

(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),

crocheting hoods to hide their heads

            and faces, full of rubble.

But many things will not remain

the Morning of the Hurricanes,

when goblets filled with cool champagne

           evaporate in bubbles.

The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash

with charnel urns awash in ash,

then fumbles with an untied sash

            while pacing in the Palace.

Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons

with memories adrift in dunes;

yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes

            and lips of painted callus.

And long before the midnight drains,

the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,

the waters of the Hurricanes

            will fill her empty chalice.

The storm (behind the clarinets,

the silver flutes, the castanets,

the foghorns belching in quartets,

            the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)

is keeping time to tambourines

while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,

pick up the shards and smithereens

            of moments lost or stolen.

They’re trekking through the Dim Domains

(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes), 

yet can’t escape the Hurricanes

            with trundling eyes patrollin’.

The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,

stoop, peering through a fence of nails

while light behind their eyeballs pales

            with plastic flame that sputters.

They huddle there because they must

(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,

their tears, palled pellets in the dust),

            behind the bolted shutters.

They’ll reawake without their pains

the Morning of the Hurricanes,

without their sores, without their stains,

their agonies will fill the drains

            and overflow the gutters.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

This is real poetry my friend. I would buy your book. Each set of lines connected leaving the reader with things to think about.
"They stumble through the old domains,
but cannot stop the Hurricanes "
the fountain weeps, the mountain wanes,
the waves just keep on rollin’."
Above lines were my favorite. I liked the truth in these words. Thank you for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote

[Terry O'Leary]

Thank you, Coyote!!
Your praise overwhelms me!!
You are really very kind and I'm happy you enjoyed my words!
Terry

[Coyote Poetry]

Was my pleasure to read your words and you are welcome my friend.

[Terpsichore]

Takes a true poetic mind to write such cleverly interwoven lines and not stray from the path.

As Coyote says, this is real poetry, something that is mostly sadly lacking in today's literary world.


T

[Terry O'Leary]

Thank you, Terpsichore
Very kind!!