Yellow Wildflowers Under A Grey Sky
Yellow wildflowers under a grey sky,
visionary smog on the dirty windows,
a genie in a crack pipe that ungrants
whatever wishes you came with
thinking six rocks might be enough
to make a whole new planet
everybody gets to rule
for an hour and a half
like fresh strawberries
and a brand new start. Fat chance.
The spring dawn has run out of preludes
and it's using spider webs
and dreamcatchers for substitutes.
Could be a lifeboat, could be a shipwreck,
could be this cataract of ash
in my third eye, could be the distant cinder
of a depressed seagull on my bent event horizon.
High calibre thoughts
as dizzy as bullets and marbles
in a game of Russian roulette
that's in it for the vertigo
and suggestive stage effects.
Addicted to the mystery
I'm always more intrigued
by what I don't know
about what I mean
than I am by what I do.
It's good to see wisdom
still holding hands with ignorance
after all these partially eclipsed,
partially enlightened spaced-out light-years
that went by in the flash of firefly
through the temple of a prophetic skull
that thought it was playing with lightning
when, in fact, it was only
third man on the match.
How could I possibly regret
what I still don't understand about life,
or celebrate what I delude myself
into giving the benefit of the doubt
when I open my mouth like a dove cage
and all the words fly out,
every mourning dove and longing nightbird
with a message that might be true
from me to God knows who?
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poem by Patrick White
Added by Poetry Lover
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