Thursday, August 11, 2016

Thursday, One Hot Summer



Thunder rumbles like war,
but the storm has passed -
the clouds blow by carrying
minor gods, bold warriors,
life, death, dreams, things
unimagined by the faces
that watch the horizon
for the return of the giants.

I used to think of evil in
those terms; giants, ghosts
demons.

Now it's random gunshots,
the need for control,
the greed for money,
words whispered sidelong,
downcast eyes that lie -
lies.

The thunder rumbles still,
further, further away.

But I'm watching...

And when the wicked giants 
steal a march to take us 
as we breathe deeply in sleep,
I'll be ready,
eyes to the ever distant
horizon.


3 comments:

Charles Gramlich said...

Heroic fantasy! I love this kind of poetry.

eric1313 said...

I liked inhabiting the voice in such fare. To become the narrator of an eternal epic, in a sense.

eric1313 said...

Another aspect of this is the guarded personality of the narrative voice. The narrator might be watching for giants or demonic things, but those things can be human if taken in a modern context.