Threshing Waters Poem by Elliott Rosenberg

It was through an oblique looking glass,
That I peered haltingly into your vernal eyes,
Laden with uncertainty,
To see darkness milling away at your heart.

Then your sheepish smile called me,
To gaze disparagingly upon your cheery self,
Rolling fags in winter,
exhaling midnight laughter as prophesies progress.

Jonas spoke to the merry folk,
Who sang of calamities at sea,
Who bowed not to Grendel,
But to the flasks of Dublin rye.

Raise your oars in advent,
Give homage to the impetus of God,
Brace yourselves for salvation,
For the viscous eddy currents have died.

A cicerone halo maunders,
half mast beneath an errant moon,
Imbibing tears weary of battle
exhumed from your fissured lips.

But I stopped to kiss the ground,
That was not there to kiss,
For the raging waters thresh themselves,
Leaving sanity stupefied this glorious morning.

And so I tilled the fatty land,
Free of patsies, derelicts and purveyors too,
Rose above their headstones,
And waged an angelic war.

Batten down the hatches! ,
Prepare to be swallowed unforgivingly! ,
For heavens rapture wants us,
As an omen of discordant love.

Strength and dominion forestalled,
A barbed noose subtly choking me,
As penance rivaled our stewardship,
Earmarked for destruction.

All is calm now,
All is fine,
A bluebird has come to give us flight,
Deciduously leaving its feathers deep in our hearts.

Beyond a swollen iris,
Somewhere in ourselves,
Where color makes no difference,
A last plume will shed playing a festal note.

And we will know.
Of this heavenly constable,
This mighty bird of dawn,
Who perches itself in meek silence,
A vanguard of sterling regard.