Fever-dreams
ETIENNE MULLER
Dreaming the old fever-dreams
again:
grey imaginings, waning on
waking,
defying the studied
parameters
of my fretful
comprehension.
Wily orientals trapping dreams
in reeds
catch subtle thoughts,
while
redskins weave their feathers
into grasses
to net the
sleeping-magic.
My dreams are bound in
iron:
rattling the fetters that bind
them
they sound their brittle tones
through
the windy vaults of my
unconscious.
Dreaming the old fever-dreams
again:
confounding fitful fancies,
foiling sleep.
I'm shaking out my
chains
to make room for new
dreams.
|
Autumn day
PAM MULLER
She turns her face to the
autumn sun
its warmth highlighting auburn
hair
now sprinkled with
silver
a prelude to the Winter
years
Perched on a standing
stone
one of eight in a grassy
circle
she gazes outward to the
mountains
listening to echoes of past
times
In the kind noon small birds
sing
from every tree, crickets
chirp in the rushes
a soft breeze moves among the
sparkles
of late dewdrops in the
sun
The woman sits and
listens
breathing in the golden
day
the rustle of dying leaves
whispers "October"
she will remember this day in
mid-winter
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The cloak of pain
MICHAEL MULLER
There was weeping when the
child
donned the cloak of
pain:
the curse of
generation,
as we leave it, it
remains;
pursuing us down
bloodline,
intangible but
real,
so following the
shadow-scent,
it dogged the child's
heel.
For the child cast a shadow as
it flew
and falling through the
heavens
into flesh, was made
anew.
So its people swaddled
it
and hid away its
nakedness,
with drooping hood,
long sleeve and ragged
hem;
its motion clumsy,
and its face was never seen
again.
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