Member Poem

It is time that is
apiece on
a mantle piece
shards of time
knotted in sanguinary
mythic places,
that is history
winding into infinite
spaces, the bard
has no time for reflection
I have found time
in the runaway ghetto
or, in the monastery
or in the prayer of hope
crushed in wheels of death
Now is the runaway time
the clock ticking in hubris
the violent become pacific
the pacific incognito
shining luminous lights
of war scarred oppression.
Blood, let there be
may we
may we
Pray. Die.
The luminous lights fade
Blood is slowly, taking over
man or animal.
annulled by timelessness
genuflection of
time
a poem stares into the future.