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Nuclear Winter's not, a privy

the snow, to me a painting pretty

and each particle which falls upon

whichever object accepting of

it's grey dull form, unearthed

I consider what it is,

and what it's not,

of natural birth.



Nuclear Winter isn't cold,

it may not soothe your itchy skin

and all the same,

it's burning hot,

...and it'll turn you old

with it's heartless grin.



Nuclear Winter isn't Winter at all,

pray tell then,

whys it snowing?

Twenty Eight,

O' twenty eight...



how you've snuck that dagger in my back,

a stalker

following me for twenty years,

a gawker

peering at me from afar.



Twenty Eight,

O' twenty eight,

I barely knew a seven.



...And I awoke this morn an aged being,

closer to the moon,

a wrinkle or two

as twenty seven suns had passed

and last midnight, the eighth

had finally caught me despite my running

and cornered me in my little hole

fed me cheese,

ensnared me,

...and dragged me to the twenty ninth moon's arrival

waiting

till my life has passed me by.

COMMENTS

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Thousandyears
01:02 Oct 28 2012

This aging poem is quite intriguing. I like it.

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POST COMMENT

Those today awakened, primordial in their slime testing

the waters, and left behind in evolution by the tethers of

society's chain, thanks for reading. I am drenched in the

annals of October rain, waiting for humanity to evolve.

I didn't get here first, nor will I be the last, but I wish

the rest would hurry up, it's getting dark and the wolves

are getting hungry. But I enjoy my company, with fellows

such as Alice Walker, Noam Chomsky and Michael Moore,

debating our place in this world, primordial and incomplete;

and once we part our ways with garbled greed, boy will life

be sweet; and I wish they'd hurry up, fore it's getting dark

around and the wolves are getting hungry.



Four billion years removed from dawn, and we're still just

waking up. The sun is drowsy and the moon's still on the

John, the fridge is leaking and oven's breaking down.

I hope the next one to arrive's a repair man. We're

all out of herbal tea, and it's getting dark. I hope

there are enlightened animal whisperers about,

and the solar rays keep cycling, one day to the next,

I've no idea how long it's been but the winter moon is setting in and it's getting cold.



How much longer does existence wait for a meaning and a mind?

This palatable dream we wake and walk, seen through the eyes of lenses and heard through an auricle, chasing leprechauns through a field of rainbows, never knowing the treasures inside, standing in a line and waiting for a thought instead exorcising the underused muscles and expanding our blood vessels with love so that we may pump our hearts a trillion fold. There comes a time, when the hands won't move and you'll have to savor every second in your mind and move your legs to a fervent rhythm you've probably heard before but never followed.



Hurry up and evolve to human level. Hurry up and arrive, we're tired of waiting, we're tired of worrying; and cuddling up to Michael Moore for warmth isn't pleasant. Just get here already because it's where we all belong, in a rational conversation led by heart and mind instead of matter, led my mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers instead of numbers, life is not a math problem but it requires math and words, paintings and symphonies to boot, so hurry up and evolve. The more the merrier. And we can't just stand out here for all time.



Which is why I Just hope Mike Reynolds gets here soon so that we can hop aboard the Earthship and return to enlightenment on a rainbow, debating the placement of the stars; escaping the wolves and ensnaring the moon in our tractor beam of love. Because the moon sure has been in the bathroom a while. And I really have to go.

Alas I've not, nor I am I not

that thing you've painted, which is.



Nor do I stand there, where ever here may be...

lamenting it.



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My paintbrush, dry

a bucket lost

...and all to wet the colored pallet.



But whose the painter?

Am I not?

The creative drive, which runs me

tells me I'm not steering.



And trapped within the runaway vehicle

I can't help but note,

the pages dried before I painted them.

Nor walk the reddest wood of tree,

where idle air the leaf *cherry*

suspend, disbelief

for your aware of the imminent approach of autumn.



The in between of cold and warm,

the sweater vest usurps the norm

and specs of frost lay idle in the wind;

afore the falling

for your aware of the imminent approach of autumn.



The moment realization nears,

before the seconds disappear

and the clock's hand strikes acquiesce;

the mess

where leaf, cold and frost;

loose their harness.



Now, before your eyelids squint,

the set's been laid for such blue print

as to usher forth the winter,

should it come;

would *by me* be quite welcome.