Marathon Mangroves Dark Water
ahhhhh...The Keys...flowing sand..clear water...beautiful vistas.....bad traffic...careless tourists...greedy roadhogs on vacation that act like they are the only ones alive..especially to motorcyclists.....drunks.......hobos.........oh...and the gentle breeze...but...I digress! I drove down 350 miles from St. Augustine to visit the beautiful keys...I don't know if the payoff was worth it (Miami traffic..etc.)...it was an........
Angel of Light (James Watkins)
You’re not as you appear
Your crown is sullied brown.
Its golden glory
Sold and shamed-
God’s gift gone underground.
A dance in dangered round-
With guilt confused-
Brought the building down.
A fine foundation shattered-
It lies like broken glass-
Gone the way
Of winnowed wheat-
Decaying in the grass.
Dead to truth and mercy-
You kindled your own flame-
Then introduced the poison ruse-
Invoked by sacred name.
The darkness now created
Is deeper than the rest-
For others followed helplessly-
You’ve put them to the test.
To shearer bound-
You rend the innocent-
They die without a sound.
You’ve filled your coffers
Advantaged for all gain-
Clothed with counterfeited light-
And profited from pain.
Some cosmic comic cowboy-
Confused by gaudy grave-
Awaited by its fullness-
In guarded pathway plays.
Rehearse for hell you hero-
You’ve fallen on your sword-
With one mistake too many-
Your plans disgorged.
You’ve taken on
Too much this time-
This giant’s cruel and cold.
Pressured prophet’s prayer-
Resistant to your mold.
Come face the fact-
Your kingdom’s fading fast.
The words you’ve spoken
Fall like rain,
Then dissipate like gas.
Not one you’ve taken
No single work will last.
Your judgment’s just-
Your time has come-
Your reign is in the past!
Drawn down deviled dancer-
Clown that’s played the fool-
The puppet master’s
Cut the string-
And taken you to school.
The strength you build
With your free will-
A gift that’s gone astray-
Will testify against you-
Its master to obey.
So measure up the moment
You paradox replete…
For every living creature
C’est la vie!
James Watkins 2004
Another Play/Poem that fits well with this by Dylan Thomas
Under Milkwood (Dylan Thomas)
To begin at the beginning:
It is spring, moonless night in the small town,
starless and bible-black,
the cobblestreets silent
and the hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood
limping invisible down to the sloeblack,
slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.
The houses are blind as moles
(though moles see fine tonight
in the snouting, velvet dingles)
or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle
by the pump and the town clock,
the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds.
And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.
Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers,
the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher,
postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman,
drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman,
the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives.
Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams,
with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms
down the aisles of the organplaying wood.
The boys are dreaming wicked
or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrodgered sea.
And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields,
and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wetnosed yards;
and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly,
streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.
You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing.
Only your eyes are unclosed, to see the black and folded town
fast, and slow, asleep.
And you alone can hear the invisible starfall,
the darkest-before-dawn minutely dewgrazed stir
of the black, dab-filled sea where the Arethusa,
the Curlew and the Skylark, Zanzibar, Rhiannon, the Rover,
the Cormorant, and the Star of Wales tilt and ride.
Listen. It is night moving in the streets,
the processional salt slow musical wind in Coronation Street and Cockle Row,
it is the grass growing on Llareggub Hill, dew fall, star fall,
the sleep of birds in Milk Wood.
Listen. It is night in the chill, squat chapel,
hymning, in bonnet and brooch and bombazine black,
butterfly choker and bootlace bow, coughing like nannygoats,
sucking mintoes, fortywinking hallelujah;
night in the four-ale, quiet as a domino;
in Ocky Milkman's loft like a mouse with gloves;
in Dai Bread's bakery flying like black flour.
It is tonight in Donkey Street, trotting silent, with seaweed on its hooves,
along the cockled cobbles, past curtained fernpot, text and trinket,
harmonium, holy dresser, watercolours done by hand,
china dog and rosy tin teacaddy.
It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies.
Look. It is night, dumbly, royally winding through the Coronation cherry trees;
going through the graveyard of Bethesda with winds
gloved and folded, and dew doffed; tumbling by the Sailors Arms.
Time passes. Listen. Time passes.
Come closer now.
Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets
in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night.
Only you can see, in the blinded bedrooms,
the coms and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and basins,
the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the
yellowing dickybird-watching pictures of the dead.
Only you can hear and see, behind the eyes of the sleepers,
the movements and countries and mazes
and colours and dismays and rainbows
and tunes and wishes and flight and fall
and despairs and big seas of their dreams.
From where you are, you can hear their dreams.