Here in the country of one-armed
men, no one gets down
nothing gets done; wavering, wild,
born to be guiled,
those with a right arm strike those with a left,
those with a left slap those with a right
building their windmill.
With dandelion gloves
there's swinging and missing, uppercut, jab
below belt puffing, fluffing and blowing
lurching hands haloed in seeds throwing
themselves to the apocalypse.
Fat heads stripped to toothpick necks
make spears for the tilting.
With quick rose thorn blades
carefully sharpened under flowers and crowns
there's much kindly cutting, blood drawing,
ankle biting, soft mouths mewing, much
intricate footwork kneedeep in horse shit
a scratched cat's ballet, petals crush-trampling;
'lay down your arm' is a difficult peace.
makes it hard to remember armistice
is ambulatory only when armless.
I live in the country of one-armed men;
some have a right hand,
some only a left. Don't ask me why,
we may not be legless but we'll only lie.
Posted for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub
Karin Gustafson(ManicdDaily) hosts today and ask us to write about truce, peace, armistice and such like. I'm afraid mine has veered off into politics.
If you would like to hear the poem read by the author, please click below:
Image: wish,by theloushe, on flick'r
Shared under a creative commons license