Poem 78
Poem 78
(for July 31, 2021)
Pious readings
spoil things.
This summer afternoon
a dry sweat walks down and up my back,
pondering catholic isolation, so as to be
an Irish bull to remind
somebody to remember
that some Popes give birth to bulls.
On bloody sidewalks
the young dance the blue bottom;
the old dance tears to confirm
fear blooms forever.
In the hot heart of holy cost
do kinfolk say
mi culpa
mi culpa
mi grave falta
to imitate a more ancient, god-stricken noise:
mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa?
Beware of the languages
that imprison life.
Until you die, if you should live so long,
an iron cage shall be a halo
of your debatable sanctity.
Your poverty, of course, is beyond dispute,
as you linger in cupidity.
In the fruition of elderhood,
blame not your kin;
you have a monopoly on flaws.
On bloody sidewalks
the young dance the
blue bottom;
the old dance tears
to confirm
fear blooms forever.
Jerry W. Ward, Jr. June 9, 2021
Poem 78
(for July 31, 2021)
Pious readings
spoil things.
This summer afternoon
a dry sweat walks down and up my back,
pondering catholic isolation, so as to be
an Irish bull to remind
somebody to remember
that some Popes give birth to bulls.
On bloody sidewalks
the young dance the blue bottom;
the old dance tears to confirm
fear blooms forever.
In the hot heart of holy cost
do kinfolk say
mi culpa
mi culpa
mi grave falta
to imitate a more ancient, god-stricken noise:
mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa?
Beware of the languages
that imprison life.
Until you die, if you should live so long,
an iron cage shall be a halo
of your debatable sanctity.
Your poverty, of course, is beyond dispute,
as you linger in cupidity.
In the fruition of elderhood,
blame not your kin;
you have a monopoly on flaws.
On bloody sidewalks
the young dance the
blue bottom;
the old dance tears
to confirm
fear blooms forever.
Jerry W. Ward, Jr. June 9, 2021
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