Dawn Poem by Lamont Palmer (Lamont Palmer)

There is peace in the house, a huge, bright thing.
There are sleeping people, brave memories,
drawn to the hope of hopes, the fireside of calm.
You can remember when family was intact.
You remember the judgment of bearded scribes.
Over the raw hills of Annellen Rd, and Kings Point Rd,
The bluster of urban hubris, gives way
To soft trees and inner city roofs with
inner integrity, as homeowners breathe in
Chase and Sanborn granules, boiled in silver
pots in which reflection shows everything,
the underbelly of progress and parity.
You think of chocolate milk and donuts
In a silver milkbox. You think how late it is
to be so early. It is a new origin.
Ebullience is for the masses. Through the
cacophony of blue/gray awareness, movement is
heard but not seen. It can never be seen. It is an aura,
ideas of color, stored in history's cold storehouse.
Where do I see this? In praise from the dead
Which arrives like dusty, sporadic trains.
You wonder if Calvary speaks like storms,
(or if it was mere dreams among mere pews)
when the sky is an empty hole, a soundless group of
disturbances, mimicking large figures.
(one with a spear, seemingly alive) .
An aunt may seem to live forever, in the smoke
of life, where groceries are well bagged
in dining rooms, where dining is rare,
under the moon, and its white death throes. Darkness dies,
like natural seething and all natural things,
when windows are portals, beyond eggshell white
which peels and is diminished on beaten sills,
diminished on feathered pillows, ghosts too, rise from.
We are nothing if not an army; soft, strategic: here,
limited in the brief limitation of life,
fresher than a spirit hiding in
simple grass, watching suns, that distant awe.