Robert Rorabeck

Bronze Star - 2,746 Points (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

Hungary - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The trumpets are sounding
Because there is something grand;
They are heralding the sun,
Jove, bull-formed, trampling the land:
All of America under the hoofed meat
Of a man once-godly,
The stampede of cuneiform
Smoke-signals choking the cities—
The heat of this oven scorches my body
Awake, I struggle to breathe
First and foremost I remember your name, Oh Lord!
The angels sing like a choir of school girls
In the shade, on their knees under the trees—
Behind me, those old days are dust,
And my life, the murdered man walking
Around with a knife sleeping in his chest.
My dreams piled together forms of transportation
All a rust,
Your name like a serpent’s tongue tasting your breast—
Outside, you go swimming in the sky.
Upon the green bowl of earth I see you lay.
Birds hear me say you name when I cry—
Oh Lord! There you are swimming all day,
The first light of thought when my mind dives away,
Your thighs like marble statues high-heeled to the east.
I just want to go back to sleep and forget you today,
And let my hungry dreams be deceased….

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Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken



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Poem Submitted: Sunday, September 23, 2007

Poem Edited: Monday, April 11, 2011


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