I sense a reckoning in the air the long last payment extracted for all I've gotten away with all my life. confused so much at so many beating drums and not knowing which to follow, not folowing any beating my own, always in moderation as in most things, good and bad. Even in loving, passion tempered by parochial upbringing. The air is stiff and close, mildewed a pervading pall stretching toward me. Maybe its tome to pay the piping charlatan howling banshee, rabid angel. Or yellow toothed death may be licking his balls in anticipation of his visiting, although I think not. The reckoning partakes no permanent payment, perhaps a limb, lobotomy, partial, a sense of being nothing, which is worse than yellow tooth death who does not dangle you over decades within an abyss while you wait for the moon pass over and it never does. If this passes I will be wary still I think, for the season of the reckoning is so long, so weary to wait out. Perhaps, yes, to song--spiritual writing to read is my thinking, to write more pleasantly fulfilling myself with psalms to the good I've done and to Hell with the reckoning the badgering presence. It will fade in the grace I shall bathe in, head into it, not looking over my shoulder. A turn! A turn again and LO! Behold the moonlight singing in the trees, shrubbery, bouncing of the sunflower's bowed heads. I kneel before you look up at honeycombed faces of gold and rejoice! Up! UP! God! UP is so fucking good!
Reason for writing:
A shut in feeling that brought the words, and the the turn to mood changing. The first line was a sort a reckoning
is ...and then the words came. Resolving not to allow myself to live with a premonition, I turned the poem around.
Birth sign: Not entered
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View more poems by John Durler, Virgo, on the cusp.