Tourmaline Haze
these are the last days rattling over rubble, the worn ruins, and pale casualties of the war between truth and desire, heaven and (dare I whisper?) hell hands entwined, we walk the gray dusty road south into a green gloom, planning the garden and a wedding feast the inky darkness of our rewritten history looms behind us, a fanged creature, malformed, fetid breath on my neck rising before us, a lion scratches at the ash, turns toward the emerald clouds Yes these are the last days, stretched tight and overloaded like telephone wire wheezing in the lonely wind with song and woodsmoke, we stave off gray creatures tapping against the fragile window panes these are days of longing, empty stomachs and yawning hearts, reaching for mirage rising, dissipating, like tendrils of steam above depleted soil and dreams we dance, knotted together, a tottering waltz into the tourmaline haze, whistling, whistling, lumbering toward the final day
Sean Downing, poet, musician, teaches high school English and Theater Arts in Pagosa Springs, Colorado. He can often be found in his woodshop, coaxing music from odd scraps of junk, or haunting the trout streams around southwest Colorado. If you see him, don't tell anyone: they're probably looking to get an honest day's work out of him.
If you enjoyed this post, hit the ♡ to let us know.
If you have any thoughts about it, please leave a comment.
If you think others would like it, hit re-stack or share:
If you’d like to read more:
To help create more Juke, upgrade to a paid subscription (same button above). Otherwise, you can always contribute a one-time donation via Paypal or Venmo.
" overloaded like telephone
wire wheezing in the
lonely wind"
Killer line! and describes perfectly the feeling I have right now. beautiful work, Sean. Thank you.