Robert Roley

troy      and then

strange lights
            upon this shore estranged
crystal bones
            on jet black sand
carnelian pebbles
            like embers

you came striding
                        across a checkerboard floor
you were
            the roaring-in-my-head
            the what-i-never-knew
we drank
            with  the soldiers dark ale
            and blood rum
heard tales
            how they died pierced
                        or shattered limbs and organs scattered
                                    across rubbled reaches

i tell you i said
                        i could not commune
                                    with such as these
beyond the fortress walls
            where leopards lurk
            i could not write
            with a straight face I had not thought
                        death had undone so many
i had not thought that in those low
            places the air has yet to settle
                        their voices
                                    still stir           

who has time

            for derrida
in a three ring world alive
            with drewbachs and chessels
where portly scrod leap trigger happy
                        thru nosegays of rusty o-rings
            wreaking haddock    
as silk worms unravel
            tapestries of transcendence
revealing fractures in the anchor stone
                                    of uncertainty

lost in gloom
            and blind stutter
half-baked doughboys
                        off crystal walls
            dreadlocked druids dance
 the ham handed conductor
            raises his baton     a perfect
                        cacophony of voices
            to studied indifference the royal
                        hegemony of the tongue
                                    inflects the palette

cavalry demisemente

at each stop
            along the line between Atonement
                        and Redemption retreating coolies
raise the alarm     spurious
            the sequential ordering of stations    each
                        a feeble bulwark soon to fall
in the wings
            the vegetative awaits
                                    our demise

the sum of your fine philosophies
            won’t fill a thimble in heaven   
so don't be moaning the gloss
            of lyric that parses
                        ever finer
            without betraying the mystery
                        of movement     but what
calculus defines thought’s
            parabola fixes the stillpoint
                        in the arc
                                    of yearning

in an age
            of unbridled illumination each
                        passing ray
                                    a random image
                        in the tapestry depicting tramps
            and idlers on the square
                        of a sunday morning
all the upstanding
            yet abed     unaware
                        that even at this
                                    tender hour
salvation has flown     ashes
                                    on the wind