The Thirst

listen to ‘The Thirst (Parts I-III)’ on Audioboo

listen to ‘The Thirst (Parts IV and V)’ on Audioboo

I.

I’d drink you as you are

         Nonpareil

All tastes, contoured evermore

                  Paragon

The slightest kiss, my very dream

         Intricate aromas begin

                  Captured through the natural snifters of aromatic skin

Delicate, fragile, suited small

         Interlaced, bijou designs—

 Attracted to and likely equaling—effects

Of a hypnotic kind—as

evinced by Mesmer’s magnetism 

         Rectangular, imprisoned baguette gem

Dry as seen cut—past the diamond’s point of polishing

         Long and narrow dreams commenced

As you supply the nourishment

         And I

Stand offering all I have—

Are the showy-cheap, these baubles kept

         Like those amassed, within a jester’s bag—

II.

Brittle mornings, barren crisp

         Flavored first as delicate

                  Just a time before,

I stand, crumbling, like the friable

         So easily reduced

To an ethereal powdered state—

         Infirmed, weak, slight and shivering

Dainty, frail, splintered some

         A dalliance—toyed to be

Humorous— to all but me, degenerating

         Here, in this soft and worn

Eroded form—built to rust as beads fall

         Oxidized and perishable

Though light can ripple cross my pane

         Causing both shadows and rainbows alike

It’s all a mirage and nothing more,

A place where reflections face their death,

It’s just me standing there, in a version you’ve never met

It’s not glass that you’ll then see

         It’s me, stripped bare—vitreous and shattering

III.

Ceramic hearts often break

With dirges and the sounds they make

Footprints testing fate

Sprinting across a lake

Crackling deep below

The surface though shows

A slight ripple here and there

But eyes formed by a porcelain mold

Nary espy the fracture’s folds

Yes. The luster can be bright

And sighs may point to tallowed signs

Fat and rich, solid lines creped amidst

These pseudo tiles that are seemingly smooth,

Yet below the façade it then appears—that this

Shiny surface here, all the while seen as crystal clear,

also holds those facets to which believers fear—

the kind creation paled and dulled—that enameled shell

with brightness still, yet here and now, the chips do not make

the picture whole-complete

IV.

Water’s floe ferments

In glasses deep we drink away

Those faulty memories debased and gray

There shall come a point, soon I do think,

Where the drought will paint these goblets a wretched dry—

Leaving their bellies parched and dead

A fiasco stands alone

Where, if lucky, a caster may,

Sprinkle respites to the day

Ponies, Magnums, Pilsners—dark

Beakers, phials, tubes—testing ‘til there grows a spark

Flagons, Flasks, tumblers, Noggins, steins

Vessels a-beached upon arid lands

With structures where but dead soldiers stand

Demijohns and Decanters, Ewers, carafes

So much room inside, a disparaging remembrance

Of where we are and in what we lack

And so, our prayers are sent up high

Wishing our cups would fill soon and nigh

With the darkness already breaching the day

We need not drop the blinds or fold the drapes

But simply bow our head and hope our dreams ascend

Chalices and grails

Kneel for wine

Cruets and Ampullas

Holding fast for the altar still

Awaiting an alembic purity

To bestow us a gift; yes we understand we ask too much

And now, in such dire straits of barren thirst, I do believe

This time, we shall make our promises work… I do so pray

Please…please afford us this one last chance

…and although it shan’t be myself… at least offer alms

upon those that have given thanks in prayer…please…please

do not make them suffer for the cruelty that the others wear…

V.

Years past and centuries too

Cups have been overfed

And yet…for granted

Man has taken

All that the

Lord has

Given

A last splash of wet

Whets the sandy shores

A final drop of rain

Blesses the burning pavement’s coals

And the earthenware’s crushed

The adobe walls have collapsed

Argil, baked—sundried clay

In ruins again

Perhaps one day

Our potsherds will

Be found

If only our ancestors

Learn to pray…

Perhaps then

The children shall

Play in the moisture

Of the day

And perhaps

The crystals

will shine

Again