Edifice

Well, worn masonry

Cimmaron square set with paste and algae

Dutiful to kinder and country

Served with quiet simplicity

With faith flaking a ruddy face

Bearing witness to a contract’s breach

Absentee care leads to rainy weeping

And glances askance by other parties

Clutched in fear with selfish concerns

Truer solutions are beyond one’s reach

Old and tired from a century’s work

Rest is the best rescission

In truth, expectations are nigh to nothing

When agreements are honored not

As time used to build one’s trust

Is never time prodigally spent

© 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved

**********************

Last Friday I ruminated on the building decay in town and how other people aren’t willing to step up to the plate to prevent urban blight. This is not advocacy for mandatory civic duty in as much as it is a candid critique of American operating philosophy.

As I see it today in 2013, people are not acting with the due care needed in public. We have romanticized individuality to the point of caricature. This caricature believes that it’s someone else’s responsibility to keep and maintain anything of public interest. If one’s name is not on the title or deed, then one is not responsible for any of it. Even if it is, action is debatable.

The easiest, and most visible, proof of this is the amount of litter permitted to lay on the roads and sidewalks of this country. New York City is atrocious about this, but on the other hand it could definitely use a revamping of waste disposal methods. Albeit a fruitless endeavor, I keep to a belief of picking up litter, if I see it. Yes, this means getting one’s hands dirty. Yes, this means worrying about a mess someone else created, but I do I anyway. Just because I didn’t create the mess doesn’t mean I’m scot-free to ignore it.

Another phenomena is the wanton development of a municipality without consideration to the existing infrastructure, resources, or body politic. It is understandable that some people in the community may be reticent to demolish the older buildings, but it’s really too late to save them. There’s a time and place posterity, but there’s most certainly a time to start anew. History is, and always will be, in the making.

Someday I may take pictures of Hooterville, but for now my poem will have to do.

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The Passage of Time

Past these fields of yellows and greens

hearty, humid perfume percolates

Streams, like time, intermittently appear

to  show destinations to and fro

Movements in time, familiar yet hazy

change through a celestial lens

A longing as far as the lifeblood flows

remains slightly out of my heart’s grasp

Existence moves my leaden feet

to a place of separation anxiety

Specters of history dance in the distance

often calling my name

Eager to capture its true meaning

I wonder if I’m the hunter or the haunted

© 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved

******************

I know this is fairly rough on the eyes and without much in the way of rules, but the importance isn’t for the public. It does give a decent window into what I hear in my head at times though. The meaning is very personal to me, and encapsulated my thoughts last night at dinner. Mind you, this was at a Wendy’s next to a young redneck with a torn muscle shirt and a trucker’s hat.

Sunday was full of driving and reading, as Saturday was full of heavy lifting and grunt work. The labor was fruitful in a sense, as I’m now in possession of two family heirlooms. Both of them need maintenance, but I know it’s nothing out of my capacity. A winged table will need to be reassembled and refinished while a grandmother clock needs a call to an horologist (I like the French term better, pendulier). I believe the clockworks are in need of some fine tuning.

Apology to a Night

Of all nature, a human’s is irksome.

The fussy child of Earth’s creation,

Wants for something but serves her little.

Inexperienced in appreciation.

Whether ignored for subtlety or forgotten in haste,

Distractions by the trivial and fleeting,

Leave time a taciturn teacher,

To lecture the deeds of quiet benevolence.

This midnight mantle, now my headrest,

Shows me kindness unannounced.

Shrouded winds upon my face,

Are tender kisses I never knew.

O! How wretched I feel,

With this prolonged ignorance.

For if no one has ever told you,

Surely I must beg your pardon.

© 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved