Broken Mask Of Anne Bradstreet
© Surazeus
2018 06 24
I used to wear the masks of people dead
from anguish of desire to live beyond
expiration of the spirit of truth
that sprouts as the tree from the ground of being.
If you will hang me from the tree of life
because I believe differently than you
then leave me for the ravens to devour
the apples of my eyes when I am gone.
When I first arrived in America,
sailing wood ship over wild sea of storms,
I sat on shore of Massachusetts Bay
and stared at the blue sky of silver tears.
How I longed to return to Avalon
and dance with fairies in the sparkling mist
so I dipped my quill, feather of the raven,
in blood of my heart to write songs of hope.
But I turned my face away from the sea
and gazed into the shadows of the future
west across American wilderness
to build our city shining on the hill.
What great empire will grow from this small town
I cannot imagine in evening glow
when I sit alone by the kitchen window
and write about our struggle to survive.
Ten thousand people who sprout from my womb
may walk across hills of America,
following the rivers of silent tears
to build the new secret Garden of Eden.
What grand epiphany of divine truth
can I discover in the shining air
when I gaze at sunlight shining through clouds
and compose verse to remember my dream?
I wear the broken mask of Anne Bradstreet
three hundred eighty eight years after she
arrived on the shore of America
to dip her quill in the blood of its land.
Alone in the woods of whispering trees,
I gaze through fluttering leaves at the sky
shining with the consciousness of my mind
so I feel the loving soul gaze at me.
I hear nothing but the thoughts of my mind
so I look behind me in silver mist,
wondering what weird mystery I might find
lurking in the shadows of wordless hopes.
My dreams loop back each day I wake alive
to tend my garden in the morning sun,
cook meals for my children at glowing noon,
and write poems of faith in the twilight zone.
I feel them in the woods of chirping birds
wherever I go on my morning walk,
the spirits of the people who lived here
before we arrived on the ship of fate.
I stop and listen in the silent woods
but cannot comprehend the secret thoughts
they whisper in agony of mute death
so I weep, longing for the woods of home.
© Surazeus
2018 06 24
I used to wear the masks of people dead
from anguish of desire to live beyond
expiration of the spirit of truth
that sprouts as the tree from the ground of being.
If you will hang me from the tree of life
because I believe differently than you
then leave me for the ravens to devour
the apples of my eyes when I am gone.
When I first arrived in America,
sailing wood ship over wild sea of storms,
I sat on shore of Massachusetts Bay
and stared at the blue sky of silver tears.
How I longed to return to Avalon
and dance with fairies in the sparkling mist
so I dipped my quill, feather of the raven,
in blood of my heart to write songs of hope.
But I turned my face away from the sea
and gazed into the shadows of the future
west across American wilderness
to build our city shining on the hill.
What great empire will grow from this small town
I cannot imagine in evening glow
when I sit alone by the kitchen window
and write about our struggle to survive.
Ten thousand people who sprout from my womb
may walk across hills of America,
following the rivers of silent tears
to build the new secret Garden of Eden.
What grand epiphany of divine truth
can I discover in the shining air
when I gaze at sunlight shining through clouds
and compose verse to remember my dream?
I wear the broken mask of Anne Bradstreet
three hundred eighty eight years after she
arrived on the shore of America
to dip her quill in the blood of its land.
Alone in the woods of whispering trees,
I gaze through fluttering leaves at the sky
shining with the consciousness of my mind
so I feel the loving soul gaze at me.
I hear nothing but the thoughts of my mind
so I look behind me in silver mist,
wondering what weird mystery I might find
lurking in the shadows of wordless hopes.
My dreams loop back each day I wake alive
to tend my garden in the morning sun,
cook meals for my children at glowing noon,
and write poems of faith in the twilight zone.
I feel them in the woods of chirping birds
wherever I go on my morning walk,
the spirits of the people who lived here
before we arrived on the ship of fate.
I stop and listen in the silent woods
but cannot comprehend the secret thoughts
they whisper in agony of mute death
so I weep, longing for the woods of home.
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