Magnums and Opuses

Magnums and Opuses

.I.
When can we plant, Father?
She says and I do not know
But I say, Tomorrow my sweet
Tomorrow.
For it is always and never
Tomorrow.
Is it today that we plant, Father?
Tomorrow my sweet
Tomorrow,
For today the rain comes
And the morrow will be better.
And on the morrow, she sits
Waiting and fearful to ask,
Other than with the dark brown
Question of her eyes.
Tomorrow my sweet
Tomorrow
Today we build a fence
For others may want
What we have worked.
And then we shall lock
So our fruits,
Both of our labour
And that on the branch
Remain ours, and only ours.

.II.

The harsh blink of the blank page
Stared balefully
A single, unblinking accusation.
And I had no answer to the
Stark reminder of nothingness.
And so I said to myself,
Tomorrow my sweet
Tomorrow.
And walked away,
Without hope, knowing that
Tomorrow is always
And never.

.III.

She calmly sits in gilded chair
Looking sadly through her window
As she plaits her soft golden hair
And wonders why she is alone.
When can I come and eat with you
Mother? she hears the cry outside
Am I not your given child too?
And she gives no response that night
Saying to herself
Tomorrow my sweet
Tomorrow.
Knowing that tomorrow is
Always and never.

.IV.

Now
Never
Always
The opus of time.
And time to make soup
As something is afoot
Pous, I think.
I spoke to my elder Tita Ana
Gram, has it always been so?
Yes my child, always
Since times of old
Reaping and keeping
What we sow
Feeding ourselves
And providing morality for those
That have none.

The fence is less to keep us in
As to keep them out
And you bear the fruits
Through your labor
And reside in the fence
While the fruit of their
Labor
Resides in tents
Outside the fence
Make sense?

Yes it matters
Where you fuck
More than what you
Do.

We who disdain the
Heredity of Kings
Know that a Man’s
Home is his castle
And we are fine
With the democratic
Royal decree that provides the
Heredity of ownership
While tilting our decidedly unroyal
Noses at divinity
And eating at the royal trough
Of One Dollar
Happy Meals.
You, who hates the 1%
Are at worst, 2%.
Unworried for the whole unless they
Covet your goods
At which time you beat the heathen
With your bible of
(Pick one)
Religion, Consumerism, Capitalism, and Constitution
But how can they violate your
Commandments and Amendments
If you aren’t their Neighbor?
Or more Biblical,
Fellow Man?

.V.

The cursor curses
And I am curst.
Likely for the worst.
So I step aside, Brat
That I am
And head to the Bier
Gaarten, Nigh to the Bower,
Open the 2% wallet
Of Capitalist
Power.
Order the Bratwurst
Hold the Mustard
And throw away the high
Carb part
While they sit on the other side
Thirsty, Hungry, and Tired

Downtrodden to the core
Eden is gone,
And the vine is dried.
Replaced by a beer garden.
Yet we still lock the gates
Blind that we guard Tartarus
And heaven is no more in the west.
Milton said it best.
Xanadu is no longer the paradise
But instead it’s
Olivia Newton John on Rollerskates,
And not Beautful Christabel,
But Geraldine,
And someday, we will remove
The fateful albatross
Of greed and hate.

I can only hope that it is not…
Tomorrow.
Apologies to the Ginger Headed Orphan.
I don’t find tomorrow to be a happy place.

.VI.

Canto
A division
Which side are you on.
.VII.
A conversation of division
Sept
Also division
Progeny, Seed.
Irish in nature
Ironic given the famines that we have in today’s world
Are not just potatoes
Yet now the Irish are wanted, so lock the same gates
That held them out.
Sept also Seven in Latin and Romance language
So by division, the Osis’
Me- and Mei-
Turn into self.
The language of Romance, turning the Irish
Progeny
Now, again, into fortunate sons by virtue
Of where their mothers lost theirs.
September originally the seventh month,
But to be truly Orthodox the seventh is the first.
First, Seventh and Ninth.
How odd for the Sept.
Yet the brood needs three
This time not the holy trinity
But the father, mom, and holy child.
One, Three, Seven, Nine
.VIII.
1379, the year of the Black Sheep.
Unfittting and Unwilling.
Creating their empire, ruling from
Mosul.
Who are your neighbors and where is the fence to keep them out.
What we put off until tomorrow is now
Today
And they are at the gates again.
Who will reach over the fence,

Neighbor?
.IX.

When she was one,
I sat and guarded the fence
For her tomorrow.

When she was three,
I sat and guarded the fence
For her tomorrow.

When she was seven,
I sat and guarded the fence
But our royalty, no better than
The common man outside the fence
Stole her heaven while I looked outside.

When she was nine,
I sat and guarded the fence,
Because I didn’t know what else to do.
For the daughter was lost and I forever heard the echo

When can we plant, Father?
She says and I do not know
But I say, Tomorrow my sweet
Tomorrow.
For it is always and never
Tomorrow.
Is it today that we plant, Father?
Tomorrow my sweet
Tomorrow,
For today the rain comes
And the morrow will be better.
And on the morrow, she sits
Waiting and fearful to ask,
Other than with the dark brown
Question of her eyes.
Tomorrow my sweet
Tomorrow
Today we build a fence
For others may want
What we have worked.
And then we shall lock
So our fruits,
That of our labor
And that on the branch

Remain ours, and only ours.
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Erik K.

Owner, Curator, Writer of this blog.

It's quiet. Too quiet. Someone say something.