The Grey Goose Flies
Time after time
Grey Goose flies high in the calm Skyy,
Plunge dives into shallow water.
The Old Fashioned must rectify:
No oasis dry, Globetrotter!
Sun streaks beaming by cough and cry,
In reach of Coal Miner’s Daughter.
With countenance wry, obscures eye;
Mirage — turned fruitless — trails hotter.
———
Beneath sun’s grin, brittle mudcrack
Breaks and spills some aged Summer Wine.
Dirt-rimmed libations tend to lack
The rock salt that these Patrons mind.
No rains yet cactoid blooms come back,
Loft aromas that seldom shine.
Crisscrossed seams — woven as Racetrack;
We’ve the Last Word, ‘hind past design.
———
The Lost Coast of this homeland sows
Each pebble strewn by one-tined rakes,
Helping times’ sands turn dawn; then blows
Glass of hour’s last shore that wakes.
Grey Goose — conscious of overflows
That rivers inundate — sees lakes.
Damned Spirits edge the desert rose
Amid the hopes that the Spring Breaks.
———
Find what ails, breathe next day’s breath.
Taste the sweet Ambrosia, commence!
For Blood and Sand — is hell and death;
Borrowed Time burns quick like incense.
About the Creator
Brian Tacderan
Here, my left brain gets a little break.
I aim to mimic Raymond Carver’s bare honesty, David Mamet’s political correctness, Don DeLillo’s social consciousness, and Stephen Colbert's satirical wit to write about contemporary life in America.
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Comments (1)
Especially when we take to our vices, this poem portrays a stifled image of cognitive dissonance during trying times, affecting our (5) senses.