Purple Poppies

Homer, my boy, the poppies are wine-dark.  Poppies!

They have a superb view of Cadboro Bay, its flesh-shining beach.

It has been a wet and cold spring,

But when it reaches the storm drains,

And people offer tissues to the weeping tile,

It must be the weather.  Damn Henry Ford!

Or the deposits of secret microfilm,

So secret, no one knows they are there,

Not even those who lay them there

In the dark days of 1812, the burning  of Washington,

And the Salish warriors paddling after Lafitte.

The decay produced no flowers, but these,

And turnips are impossible.  The bearded man

Is noteworthy.  How strange is that!

Beatniks had short hair.  Small children frolic

At Gyro Park.  Avoid looking at the swings, please,

Face crime, eye crime, gaze offense!

The inappropriate has become illegal.  The poppies

They stare, and that is why they change colour.  No,

Just kidding.  They blow, you know, they blow,

The poppies, although they have no rows.

They are scattered in anarchic, not chaotic, order.

When my ears are syringed, I will hear them sing.

I will not be surprised.  Just amazed.

The three genders line up for enlistment.

Are you not there, my son?  Ho! then come again,

Sweet love doth now invite.  Do not reply.

Pods like censors have blessed the seed

That sprouts on the dusty ruined rutted strangled

hillside.  Ours, with those who are about to die,

Salutamus! sweetheart!  I swear I will not pick them,

Rather set a guillotine on the slides.

Solomon, the fool, did not consider them.

Solly!  Lilies are for the dead,  with these nod into dream.


Published in: on June 18, 2012 at 6:45 pm  Leave a Comment  
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