Ballad Of Ecstatic Truth Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The days feel good coming home with no darker
Thoughts sunning in the grass- just the opal palms of feminine
Flesh testily over crackling wheat,
Farmers of spikenard and cormorants unwieldy in their
Turns, sell their poetic stock for a saccharine carnival;
And all throughout the night it yearns very sophomoric but
Upright, pacaderms of gears trying to throw off little gallant
Men- Girls with hidden sores and holes for snakes and
Hummingbirds- The true feelers of the world always branching
Outwards, always reflecting in like gaunt and garish faces
Rippling down into the wash basin’s porcelain;
And right about now, as my feet go stomping by on those roads
Of sparking time, realizing how the beautiful lies spend off more
Perfume than an entire pyramid of dry good truths- I would sell every
Button, every leathered soul to forget the delusion of memories
Myself extols to swing up there with the forgetful menagerie
Bought by the high mountain’s vacillating fruits, guarded by
The irreverent farmers, now insouciant and rhymed-eyed,
Clapping together all across the stone-gemmed waves, a
Ballad of ecstatic truth.