He comes down the hill
head held high, toughened
cheekbones, eyes searching
horizon like some Mayan warrior
emerging from lost cities
long slipped into vine-laced fog
leaving altars, stone work
Crossing the road, he slings
post hole digger weapon-like
across his shoulder
ready for spilled blood,
but lines up with bronze men
slicing red clay, laying it open
for wire talk so we can
all go on and on about
airline peanuts’ shocking cost,
cellulite ruining our lives,
end of world football lockouts.
Ground gutted, cable goes in
and he remembers
how his grandfathers
laid hands on the earth,
Douglas, you always leave me with the feeling as if I have experienced another piece of the world I could never have seen on my own. Absolutely wonderful poetry.
Sam, I’m glad you liked my poem and many thanks for your generous comments!
Superb poem. I feel the hands on the earth, listening…. Thank you.
Super poem. Well written!
Thank you so much and I loved your poem, especially the last stanza… “to grind her bones into dust”.
Douglas, had to say again, as I reread this poem – what a GOOD poem!
Thank you for your kind comments. I feel complimented to receive them from such a fine poet – “Breath” is a great poem.
Douglas Anne, I am in the Yucatan among the Mayan ruins which makes the fantastic imagery of your poem even more real. I always get so much from your poetry. Thanks for this one.
You’re really there? Wow – how I envy you – I bet you get several poems from this trip!