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The Eighth Plague
by Kristina Woodhillwhere deep blue skies
turn dusky brown,
then cloud of pink blooms
mushroom-like,
where wind of wings
finds ears to drum
and jaws like scissors
cut
there jumps about
and dances wild
two figures waving arms,
hands gesture to
dark eastern skies,
young voices muffled,
shrieks clamped
shut
where warnings don't send
fleetfoot scouts
clear eyes and ears
must soldier strong;
horizon's face breaks fair
one day,
the next,
a plague of havoc's throng;
two lids we beat
with wooden sticks,
with rods we struck loud metal,
we beat at words,
the ancient verse
of pharoah's
tightening cinch;
from Exodus,
its pages torn,
wind formed
in 3-Dimension
a million winged reasons
flailed
our reasons
not to flinch
and we were swallowed whole
and we were swallowed whole 01/06/2012
Author's Note: My friend and me, a summer afternoon in the back yard, Lashkar Gah, a cloud of locusts, early '60's, other worldly.
Paganini posted a thread in General Forum about Poetry in the News. This poem has been aching to be written for some time - somehow "and there we were" helped it be finished.
Posted on 01/07/2012
Copyright © 2024 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Jo Halliday on 01/07/12 at 06:55 AM Lovely poem! |
| Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 01/07/12 at 03:01 PM The writing I love of yours most is about when you were there. You write everything impeccably beautifully, I just happen to favor these. :) |
| Posted by Clara Mae Gregory on 01/07/12 at 07:23 PM awesome....this touches deep |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 01/12/12 at 12:08 AM A scenario that strikes me as intensely daunting, especially here and now, so I'm inclined to regard this as the eighth wonder :> |
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