Friday, May 20, 2016


A ball of twine, good-quality, suitable
for fine knitting, unraveling down a slight slope,
a steeper one

End-times perhaps, and perhaps only
the ukases issued with numbing regularity
and arrogant familiarity from multi-hued

a city of bald hearts and grasping nails

the sainted man, still living, followed
into the desert, hard dry place of sand
and rock, things that scurry, seeking shade
if it can be found, or a cave

refugees from a terror of tolerance
tearing at the twine, slicing threaded sinews

tuxedos and designer gowns
encircling the burlap with its upside-down
and yellow crucifix, brittle laughter

or ridicule, either would suffice
for the purpose

Photograph by Lynn Grayling via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.


Mary Sayler said...

Deep! A poem to read again, Glynn.

Martha Jane Orlando said...

This simply blew me away, Glynn. I'm in total agreement with Mary here!

Glynn said...

Mary and Martha (no Biblical imagery intended here) - thank you. This was one of those ideas that seized my mind and wouldn't let go until I wrote it down. It's different from what I usually write. I know what prompted it, but I didn't expect it to take the direction it took. Thank you so much for reading it.