JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

Our blood is fire under the dome of heaven

not blue like Richard, Arthur and their kin

it springs from wounds, volcanoes, fields of poppies

in common glory, artillery and sin

 

And when the call of valor sounds its bugle

and when the ice is treacherously thin

watch birds of paradise wing into rainbows

and sunsets drown in ocean’s darkening brim

 

So paint us yet another awesome image

and fill our hearts with choirs, chimes and din

our story book a peacock tail of colors

of brass and bronze of dissonance and tin

 

And then it’s time to leak into the canvas

to bless, bequeath, forget the world we’re in