Magpie#31 The Captives

The Captives

Thoughts convergence through warped and rippled
allowance of shifting sands now glass
fragments of mind shattered and torn worn thin
time is lost to logic and space is utter uselessness

As the ancestors return their reflective incantations
smudge pots brew on fire lit skies
lined row by row they flash in time to yesteryear
Midnight Etched like indelible ink for tomorrow just past

Old ghost sheets flap silently in a dead breeze
lifeless leaves leave nothing to chance or dream
this is the only remmanent left of life
this half-shelf image of time in a bottle

relaying truths
rehearsing dirges
replaying the silent song
over and over again
Remember me
The Captives call

Heightened imagination recalls
no sound of rustlin' nor blowin' only still
the world aswirl in auburn crimson as we bone chill
switch the tempo up a notch

here's the dead drunk sailor dancing the dirvish
and Great Aunt Molly knows how to get her Jollies
Grandpa Jones sits back and lights his pipe
Uncle Albert plays the flute all day; no tripe


As all caught in this alchemist's sandtrap glass:
bubbled sheets echoes ages and dead poet's flowers way past
nightcapped images; long flowing gowns; flickering candles
glow with such eerie ephemereal if not a bit sentimental light

glimpsed from the blindside now a sudden gust
cold breeze blows up between
conjured altered images suddenly The Otherworldies appear
never actively sought but thought woke the dead
those who taught us will teach us once again how to play dead

the windows closed ought naught to have opened
it shouldn't have happened
yet these captive shadow images emerge
from the brachish depths of the soul

from the cold cold ground
to reappear frozen in time this entity on glass
a tell-tale sign of what we're to become?
whose to find us or talk to us then?

images caught in a frozen world sandwiched in time
between this world haunting us til kingdom come
for posterity this wierdness wired for unsound
when all is said and done; there is no reason, no rhyme

The Wind died down caught in this moment of quiet reflection
this motion
this momentum
this measure moved

As window urns and polished brassl worn and torn curtains suddenly open
as we with Otherworldly eyes peer through to see the return of the Ghostly
thought it was my night off oh no! these iconic images slowly seep into the skin
reminds us of what has gone before and what we will be yet again!

jj