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Equinox
Author: James Cummins
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Equinox
These iron talons
are ratched from the screeching
of high speed chicken
and physical transplantation,
I cover my ears
as arrives the familiar hum
and begins the distant cry,
And clench my hands
to harden my scour and poise,
But looking in growing tension,
Each time I raise my hand,
The noise,
It disappears,
You have me trembling,
Trying to again tune
these senses to sensation
and not the hairs on the back of my neck,
Slowly locking our fingers,
How else can I describe
the flower growing slowly inside me,
In spite of all my anticipation
for the thorn
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Grandchildren
Author: James Cummins
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Grandchildren
Why, here the stone grass grew
once, when beauty touched the sky,
When glass giants made heaven
twice as long,
Speaking of the atmosphere,
Here is where the stone wing flew
once, before the freeways
touched the sky,
And broke the illusion golden,
Yes, there once was a time
when this work of art mirrored
the face of God,
Before, of course, it replaced it,
And abandoned
forgot what it was supposed to look like
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Post-modern Vision
Author: James Cummins
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Post-modern Vision
As the minute hand
pounds the heads of the radio giants
like nails into the framework
of a new foundation,
The prophets ready their scissors
around the neck
of their next message caught from drift,
The sprinkles of shaved glass
colliding head on
with the ocean's break against the bottle,
Is the invisible song
preaching the future,
Invisible, but solid
in a liquid ecclesia
banging on the walls,
Trying to bump the static
not yet seen as a change
of change,
By unborn artists
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