ArtsAutosBooksBusinessEducationEntertainmentFamilyFashionFoodGamesGenderHealthHolidaysHomeHubPagesPersonal FinancePetsPoliticsReligionSportsTechnologyTravel
  • »
  • Books, Literature, and Writing

Greyson Sweetbrook

Updated on May 5, 2016

Cows

I've seen the cows eating, chewing,

looking at the passing cars. what

must they think in their dappled

thoughts?


I wandered as cloud draped in

cotton white, laid by a stream

forgetting my cares of the day,


staring with glassy grey eyes

at the movements of the swallows,

so angular and decisive in their

pursuit of insects.


we are all driven by pursuits.

we are all given time to chase

our miracles under the sun

of a canvassing God, resisting


the coldness of the winds into

which we lean, perhaps wanting

to stop, but not forgetting the

caveats of the storms, so frequent


in their abstruse convolutions. I

cannot know what the song bird

complains of, as I sit with a spear

of grass and smell the fallen hay


of a nearby field. I cannot also know

the reason for the day and the

denying of refugee hopes, pulsating,

laden with the scars of battles


dimly understood, known only for

their effect on the wills of the

wild blue lakes and their insistent

pouring of motion and promises


upon a waiting green frog, sullen

in its vicious croakings. I reach

for an understanding of books

but am denied by the tyranny


of the decaying leaf litter,

staring into a light so gentle

it renders all pain as hallucinogenic,

gliding and morphing into lines


in a painting yet to be understood

by the standing visitor, purse in

hand, thinking of lunch and her

forthcoming amusements at tea,


scheduled so far in advance,

so far in advance.


I've not seen dogs in November

that didn't recall a flaking of

snow on the barren grounds of

an urban thruway, so quickly

absorbing the thoughts of those who


are forced to eat and hope in

the dismal squares erected when

industrial leviathans promised to

keep them at least fed and clothed,


never mind the art, the reason,

the canceling of yesterday's sun

after the fact. it no longer matters

what color the church bell rings,


calling to the trudging families,

making their way slowly toward

the altar upon which they

lay their dilated delusions, wishing

upon a Caesar to raise a spear


in the name of justice and red

candied consequences of ribald

jokes, whispered by the men as

they stand in line, waiting to

shake the hand of the celebrant,


wanting only to get to the chair,

drink something to fill their

accepted emptiness.


Comments

    0 of 8192 characters used
    Post Comment

    No comments yet.