WE CANNOT HEAR THE SLEEP OF WORDS We cannot hear the sleep of words Under the seas, under the flowers, under the tides of out lots And the bustling over sheets in skies depleting Or our infinite whispers unheard. How Inevitable silence whisks us is the tune That, like the spires of monks, grows tired with the trends And, dreaming about the text, Shies into the fire. Words Are as remote as the stars and their staring dawn, As perceived as God. Does This quiet sleep of words hide schemes, hide fears? Does the last lash of the wind and the failing wing Outwardly spiel an end? Let us listen, Open the mind and listen For a sigh, a sign Of speaking unadorned. There is No cry, there is only The one weathered night whose wakefulness stings and Hoots the Word over and over Until the speaking dies. A KIND OF DECALOGUE Item, an animal, and how it changes shape, Now a slick leopard, then a white air Of tigress, ape or lemur. The forms won’t take One simple pattern for long. Item, the crow And then the simple blackbird, gathering up Hunted petals. Item, a demesne of guns Hotly presented to a potted face, A shaft of holly leaves, darkness begun And flapped astray. Item, motors without grace, Churning the fair aside. Item, the bones Of reservations, now Plot One, Plot Two Purveyed by engineers. The hunters are half-conscious of their Deeds And cackle. Signs are made, sometimes honed, And then the silent Blue
Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.
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