Tuesday, November 8, 2016

Through the night, thousands of voices

Through the night, down in the wetland, the geese keep up an amazing commotion, thousands of voices among newly sprouted blades of grass, proclaiming in the mist by whatever light there is the pungent November warmth, the rise of the flood and the rot of the mud — Lazarus, come forth! And he came fifth and lost the job. Ah, Ulysses, rejoyce! Everything is here, nothing is found, nothing is lost, save a mind not worth saving, by a man and his raving, whatever the cost.


Jonathan Chant said...

Made me laugh William. Thank you.

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...


Look! There! Listen!
Look at the geese!
And so loud! What a racket!
There must be a million of them,
wave upon wave of wide V’s.
Look how low they are.
I think they’re going to land over there
in the cornfield.

Later, in the quiet before sunset,
I thought I saw the shadow of a hawk,
but then I heard the searching peal,
saw a single lost and lonely goose pass over
in a race against the dark,
looking for a cornfield.

Copyright 2008 – Softwood: Seventy-eight poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, Jonathan, thanks, Gary. This entry took a strange turn along about “rot of the mud” (or maybe before then), but hell, we work with what we have (between the ears) (speaking of cornfields). Amen.

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

Geese Louise! That's pretty corny.