Tony, 7 listopada 2011
Cloud cover
I don’t see myself in
this.
Waiting for the cloud to
part,
for my illumination to
begin.
When I’m warm I grasp it, mania
ensues.
The need for clarification
overwhelms me
I overstep the mark and your
recoil begins.
Reciting Oppenheimer, caught
in the brightness
all I can do is wait for
the clouds to converge.
You walk away.
Wanting to feel.
Wanting to hope.
Wanting to love.
Cloud cover.
Briefest of glimpses. You
see me in there.
Promethean intensity
revealing what is alive
but that which can’t persist.
A love shaped by contrast,
by shade: eclipsed.
Within my penumbra all is
bleak.
I want to emerge and
unfurl-to radiate
You remain.
Helping me feel.
Helping me hope.
Helping me love.
Cloud cover.
Red and Black are my world’s
only colours.
Falsehoods and deceptions.
Contradictions overshadow
what emerges inside me.
I am at home in Diodati.
Corrosion can be reversed
but its remnants still
contaminate.
Acceptance of the haze is
the beginning of purity.
You cleanse.
I feel.
I hope.
I love.
Cloud revealed.
A Marriner © September
2006
Tony, 7 listopada 2011
Myth Maker
Framed in celluloid
for the crime too;
the offence
of selling an ideal,
maintaining the Dream.
Reeking of bullshit,
the myth and the man.
All eyes look West.
Itinerant coarseness
erased,
the horse he rides
is an East coast hobby.
Frontiersman,
Indian-killer
or mountain trapper,
their positions usurped.
High in the saddle
he dons the white hat.
Manifest Destiny drove him,
across the Plains to live
free.
In Rousseau’s natural
world,
House Full signs go up
the frontier is closed.
Farmer, miner, cattleman;
all tasted the corporate
truth.
Open range?
Staked claim?
Freedom?
We still need a hero
for the folks back East.
The nation needs its
Arthur
for chivalry and honour-
its campfire song of
Roland.
A horse, but not of
Homeric wood.
Our hero is the cowboy,
lifted from the earth.
In times of plenty
he rides with silver spurs.
The Great Communicator
knew his role and mythical
worth.
Bad times reveal the
stubble,
coyote howl and rheumy
stare.
Do we still believe in cowboys?
A shadow with a gun.
The hat exchanged for
black
a Lone Star pinned on.
A. Marriner © November
2006
Tony, 7 listopada 2011
American Sky
Warm and dry
Californian sky-
That first
Spanish taste in Angeles’ glare
No zephyr to
purge Downtown’s shadow.
Freed from the
Valley’s crucible
Cocooned in
air-con, going East to the West
To see America’s sky.
Mojave
brightness caps light ochre soil,
Blue ever
present, ruffled by haze
Nevada’s inferno streaked with contrails.
Santa Fe railroad climbs an azure grade
Bisecting Arizona, Route 66
hitches a ride.
Reflecting the
sapphire: America’s
sky.
One-eighty
turn North, to the Colorado’s
deep child.
Strata of rust
and sage, give way to cerulean vault.
Aeons of
creation bringing light to the floor.
Painted
Desert, its
watercolour horizon
Frames a
meteorite’s arc- deep clear backdrop
A sunset
volcano ignites America’s
sky.
Monumental red
cathedrals, in dusty glory
Punching heavenwards,
the stagecoach’s goal.
Navajo light
is weaving their claim.
Emerald blue Tahoe
illuminates the Sierra’s
Cold clear
march. Through gold’s wild man
To Manzanar,
teardrop in America’s
sky.
Yosemite,
primeval in majesty carves its space
Pines and firs
lance upward, with meadows of
Colour
breathing crystal air.
Angels
returning to view as green cedes to brown,
Smoke black
horizon drapes gauze on the sun.
The fires of
renewal streak America’s
sky.
Anthony
Marriner © September 2006
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