A poem for Thursday

West From the River's Edge
    by Maggie Secara

Not everything is a lie.

Tempers flare, birds fly south

(not always for the sunshine)

even love, while it lasts,

is true as the blood

on the canvas walls, the relic

of someone’s Guernica afternoon;

but the truth is only important

when it’s useful, or harmful

in the end—

every word a felony.

The lies sift somewhere

between friends and murdering angels,

dropping from

     the oak trees

like fireflies and morning dew

     contaminating the crossroads,

virtue tied up in a kitchen rag

disguised as cloth of gold

tarnished on the battlefield

of casual death and idle weddings

without charity

     or kindness

          or grace.

The sword is quicker

but this will do. 

voices, not voices

the shades of voices

bitter and muttering something

that sounds

like my name in a shadow

I should, if asked,

weigh my heart against a feather

defend with honour, apologize

with grace, bear a sentence

if earned. Instead,

I shout from the wall,

fling up my hands, and die

anyway.

I glide thru papyrus on a flat

     reed boat

hunting water fowl startled

to stillness, flat

on the flat sky.

My brothers and my sisters, tiny

figures at the lotus prow

pull down the stars

and eat them.

=====================

I've always thought this was my best poem to date, but it's never found a home, until now, at Writers News Weekly. Here is is with the indents restored. Not that they make a huge difference, but maybe a small one. It turns out I write pretty well when I'm seriously pissed off. ;-)

I might add that I got word they were looking something for this week's issue, sent them three, and they chose this one almost at once! I'm still dancin'!
Picture: Agoura faire site, March 2010 (dianebrowningillustrations.com)