Wednesday, 5 February 2020

After Panic by Stephen Mead

Volcanic Ash by Filter Forge via Flickr

After the volcanic shock,
the literal ash covering,
covering soft as leaves on any
body gagged by thrusts,
the rape of knives thrashing away…

After that, the extreme reflex
of what is trauma should not seeing
take a while?

Understand now I was rock
upon a walking aorta
& the limbs were my own.
Understand hope, a chance to trust
became the old tremors for a what if,
for a re-run, for a silent running.

One day Blues belted this out
& then Pride cried “Released,
I shall be” to believe in
what wasn’t just pain.

Maybe you understood it,
that my fear was an ignorance
that any one thing safe
could possibly exist.
Maybe I reacted badly,
had a minefield of reasons
& a gun of flesh down my throat.

If so, forgive me.
I didn’t know birds would return,
that skin wouldn’t always be metal
or that a garden could exist without brutalization.

Now the ruins have overgrown
though the wind may still show slices.
Now to love fully is to know
you will give that love elsewhere
so why not say
blessed be?

Once the Earth got angry
& had to show that somebody was killing.
Once I had to fight just like that
to push out the hateful knives.

Explosions, a misfiring, & the ash may fall
not at all where wanted.

Then comes the apologies & the gardens,
the Earth saving itself & what it can.

So I send you these roses.
Plant, give each one to whomever you will.

And so on, and so on.

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