Marc Creamore

Marc Creamore Poems

The Best Poem Of Marc Creamore

Invocation To The Clouds

Oh gentle rain, oh unwanted by the majority rain,
come and bathe mankind’s awol state
of consciousness, bathe the pastures littered
with gravestones,
bathe the harmonica blues from the souls
of Bobby Dylan and James Cotton
because they long for swollen Mississippi rivers
or the particular nuances of angelic harps that
will call them home.
Oh rainfall, they have placed an embargo
on whispering mirrors that once upon a time
used to speak in truthful movements,
abstract apartments contain suicidal hockey
players and the unfed dictionary of shotgunned
despair...
Oh hopelessness runs like 10,000 lemmings
across the portals of desperate and crucified eyes
while everyday bumper stickers announce
the second coming or the visitation
of misconstrued aliens.
Oh pour down with the manna of prophetic virgins,
with morning time dreams of dissolved clocks,
with the frazzled teardrops that drown the poet’s
mind, with the liquified bones of dinosaurs
and the perpetually bottled up ache of hippie
signatures.
The planet is becoming impatient, its running low
on the nocturnal dewy formation of natural
prescriptions of rejuvenation, is becoming weary
with the presence of zombie scarecrows
and Christian crosses that litter the skyline
like a collective of unborn species.
And the persistent Wintering down on Main Street
buries tightrope walking gargoyles
in an avalanche of snow blanketed cars
while pigeons and blackbirds form a nation state
of listless wings.
Oh the commercial element stands inside
the nuclear waste of television screens,
blasphemes the quiet oratory of willow trees,
the Patron Saint of the Arts
and as the blue water diminishes daily,
humanity just continues to make slaves
of the Orca Whale and the seahorse.
So I’m gonna go down to Bleaker Street once again
and lay down a prayer mat over a manhole cover,
hold my hands wide open and try to invoke
a cascading eclipse of moisture from your
circular cycle of evaporation and renewal.


******************************************


Dust, bins of corrupting innuendo try to annihilate
and smother the constitution of Green Peace
and the non divisive voices of the sensitive
oracles who parade down Freedom Avenue,
past picket lines, past the hovels,
the decaying bridges of the starving
and the homeless, past billboards that advertize
with capital I’s and not the unification
of the primordial urges of human consciousness.
We must rewrite the story of metaphorical brotherhood,
must write with the fingerprints
of psychologically blessed literary monks,
must scribble away on every scrap of yellowing paper,
every frayed sleeve of parchment,
every concrete virginal wall and White House
window with non erasable ink.
We must not allow the rain of benevolent
knowledge to be cast away like Adam’s
misunderstood rib, for the blurred images
of historical portraits only reflect back with half
alive eyes brimming with fountains of pain
and unforgiving sorrow.
Oh take the softness of a butterfly’s wing
and make it a weapon of natural kindness,
take the unsung hero and heroine down
from the mantle of heaven and embrace them
and listen very carefully to the words that fall
from their lotus moist tongues.
Take the Bible, the Koran, the Dhammapada,
the Vedas and the Torah and rewrite them minus
any sense of aggression,
take the text of the Oak tree, the poetics
of songbirds, the liquified longing of the ocean
and allow them to coddle you in an embrace
of ethereal sagacity and become joyous refugees
dancing in the vast meadow of your soon to be
awakening minds.
Touch the fronds of the moon kissed dahlia,
the protective palisade of the stars,
the once flown away spirits of congenial maidens
who wander in perfect harmony beside a lake
of unfulfilled dreams.
Touch the already broken fragments
of the collective human soul and gather them up
and heal them with the iridescent caress
of an unseen light that emanates from
the internal depth of your eyes.
Touch the heart wounded, the weary travelers
going nowhere, the burning embers of sadness,
the thunder and ache of symbolic temples
and allow them to be rekindled by the mysterious
mystic essence of Creation.


******************************************


And so I rest by the murky glass of a questioning
window pane, seek the heavy clouds
that I saw as a child, call forth a deluge of charity
to wash clean all this sickness,
this unwanted and restrictive waistcoat
that cripples and confines us inside this circus
of horrific and abnormal hallucinations.
Oh rain, oh seminal moisture and wet lips of Eve
before the invention of serpents,
oh revolutionary and forthcoming aftermath
that will in time rinse away all the sadly inherited
miscalculations of humanity...
pour down with the force of a beggar’s blues,
with the beautiful ache of a moaning guitar,
with the weight of a bell ringing ocean,
with the tears of every child in every land,
with the field songs of thirsty slaves,
with the sap oozing from the heart of fractured
flowers,
with the drowning days of captive dolphins,
with the wine cups emptied by the ghosts
of Greenwich Village,
with the pulsation of heaven’s milk train,
with fluidity of long past memories of forgotten
dawns,
with the sorrowful waterfall of Heartbreak
Avenue
and with the ever flowing foundation
of infallible fruition that will in time permeate
the cracked and dried out soil of the humane
mind.

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