Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Darkness, Flash


Darkness, Flash





Darkness
and a flash;
you turn my poppies blue.
Red is your color
and so I cannot choose it.

The screaming void
paints your face.
Heat and ruin
are your playmates,
death your paymaster.

Don't think you enter unopposed,
disguised, pretending to light
with only darkness
and a flash
for eyes.


~August 2017











Images: Torchlit parade thru the Brandenburg Gate, Berlin, on the night of Hitler's ascension to chancellor, January 30, 1933,  pubic domain
Torchlit parade through the streets of Charlottesville, Va, during the 8th month of the Trump presidency, August 11, 2017(cnn) 








9 comments:

  1. Every word sears. I love your use of the word paymaster, and the warning of the final stanza that these jackals are recognized, and will be opposed.

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  2. Dark times then, dark times now. The last stanza is truly a warning to those who think they fool all of us. Excellent write.

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  3. And that is exactly why we need to stand against such evil things. Actually the best resistance that I've heard is to ring the church bells... or to face them with our backs. Evil evil times and an excellent capture

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  4. Sobering, Joy, especially the photos and situations. I have lived too long, when i see what is happening to our neighbours in the US.

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  5. This is so incredibly powerful and can be interpreted in so many ways.. the final stanza completely blew me away! Kudos.

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  6. that we face such peril from within, and the rot surfaces. we can only hope sunlight will be enough to disinfect ~

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  7. Ugh... Joy, the comparison is too near the bone. You explore what many fear to contemplate and your words open windows to let in a little light.

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  8. Even the thought of anyone taking red from me makes me want to throw punches, not all of them metaphorical...

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  9. Close encounter with the Beast here, occasioned by a photographer's flash bulb (now that's a relic). The violence of the moment ebbs back revealing the colors of bad history. Through that moment we see a long long train of marchers trying their damndest to stay white against the night. It is suicidal, the rage of the lonely declining forgettable regrettable shrinking Y chromosome. I'm glad you took this up and savaged it so deftly.

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"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats