If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away---Henry David Thoreau

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Saturday: a poem by Leo Hartshorn














silence
cold gray stone
tomb of death
womb without breath sustaining
draining a mother's tears
a traitor fears
eleven hide
the world outside
oblivious
to the song
now muted
and still

god is dead
or so they said
it rings truth
stings the soul
a cry echoes
from a piece of splintered wood
it does no good
life pouring out
upon parched earth
the devil laughs at rebirth
hell's jaws open wide
god outside
suspended
ended

dark within
solitary
crimson-stained
angels flown
hope unknown
to women praying
by candlelight
for one sealed in stone
alone
silence drones
saturday

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