Oh no. We are not thoughts or torts or orts,
well, not that they are not a part of us.
We are not one nation under God or Schwartz,
not that we do not partake of the Dreyfus.
Awareness, cognizance, sentience, argh!
I Ham therefore I Shem to Shaun, Penman*.
Deep reaver, my home lies on the sand bar;
and of olive branches, keep goats from them.
There was a better home before a God,
before a bear skull laid with your old dad,
before an even hid the dark primes odd,
before a smooth stone scribbled spiraled.
Where is it? It is here: it is always;
and never, forever unseen glaze-maze.
......................
*'Shaun the Penman' is from James Joyce 'Finnegans Wake'
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
