Saturday, November 30, 2019

Spirit Apocolypse

Spirit Apocalypse

Entropy dreams of its Creator
under the burning blanket
of wild horses slaughtered
of eucalyptus torches slow
roasting marsupials,
of its enemies hogtied helpless
if not as yet quite mastered,
all things of beauty bent
to the wheel of avarice
as the spotted pony runs
as the devil drowns
in sympathy
in sycophants
in syncopated strategies
of the smallest minds now
suddenly somehow successful.

We wait for the tide
to rise, the Earth to speak, 
for the wild appaloosa 
with our handprint
on its flank to find us, 
for the ash
to heave up the white buffalo,
the soul we weep for
to race oblivion
of wave and fire, drought and famine
to bear us
where we may buck and strain
to cut the cords that
crack the bone
of this ravaged
rock on fire

calling to the spirits
for the spotted pony
the white buffalo
the avenging angel
as if we know them,
with only the death's head grin
of the four bleached horsemen in sight.

~November, 2019

Images: War Pony II, by Sarah Lyn Richards. All Rights Reserved to Artist
White Buffalo, by Cuzco. All Rights Reserved to Artist


  1. Oh Joy. How wonderful to read you again. This poem is engraved on my heart, now, forever. It speaks to my GRIEF over what is happening to our beloved Mother Earth in the name of the most appalling greed. That appaloosa with our handprint on its beautifully said, so terribly sad. Best thing I have read in a long time. It went straight to my soul.

    1. Thanks, Sherry. This is a poem after Wild Woman's heart.:_)

  2. I despair of the planet, what with the Moron In Chief and his busy-ness buddies. What a waste of so much beauty and life. I think it was Oscar Wilde who remarked that Americans know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

    Koalas, giraffes, tigers, so many familiar animals going down the tubes because people just have to have freaking *everything*. it saddens me no end.

    1. It's hard to watch if you love animals more than humans, as the rational among us do. Thanks Shay.

  3. Human handprints everywhere, on the holy wombwall Lascaux, on flank of this appaloosa, lifting from the the broken neck of Gaia, all for the dominion and glory of white death. Truly we embrace what terrifies us most, and this spirit apocalypse has provided the flint-edge of annihilation, a glory which revels in hunting down life until there's nothing left run, all the way to the final fatal four horses. By their bones we will be known. (There's good evidence that Paleolithic societies hunted many mesomorphs to extinction, like the cave bear and wooly mammoth). In AA they call the Four Horsemen of alcoholic apocalypse Terror, Frustration, Bewilderment and Despair, though someone usually wryly adds two more, Visa and Mastercard. There's is yet a vitality in this poem, a willingness to shake the rattle even if most of its beads might be poisoned. In praise, perhaps, of the dead ...

  4. Yes, when the world is a lifeless crime scene, some cosmic forensics may lift our handprints from the throat of the Earth we have strangled with our deathwish greed. Still, those of us whose cores have not as yet been completely hollowed out must praise and mourn the dead, record and remember our mass murders for their sake, because they carry us on their backs to our own oblivion and who will speak for them then? Thanks for reading, and for your insight, B.

  5. It is nothing less than planetary wide arson. We think that someone else started the fire, committed the crime. We never realize that "someone else" is me to another.

  6. I read your words on two levels, on the right brain side which marvels at the art behind the poetry, the pictures, some most horrific, some a spiritual awakening, and on the left brain side, I admire the careful planning, the meter, the structure and sheer brilliance of the frame your poetry places around the picture.

    1. Thank you Kerry. Your words always mean a lot to me, as I know what informs them is your heart and, I think, both sides of your brain. ;_) Much appreciated.

  7. we (im)print, handprint, fingerprint, we put our hands on everything. maybe that's the defining characteristic of homo non-sapiens - maybe we should be homo main-iac instead.

    I understand why you've been mostly absent, Joy - thanks for stopping by. ~

    1. My pleasure. And I think we already are homo-maniacs, because we can't spell either. Thanks for understanding.


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