Wednesday, March 03, 2010

we children of a blessed clime
drinking mead from golden horns
so many grapes spilling across our chins
that each wears pearly beards of fruit

what plenty in this place
so much and more, a moveable feast
3.79 million square miles
far hills lost to the curve of the earth

so strange the virgin land once was
no blade had cut that new found loam
and dusty years belied it's new world youth
languidly lost in tales of time

How now this aged place become
the dirty fields and oily roads
those youthful years so far behind
and sighing, sets it down to rest

how like a life this land has grown
how anthropomorphic in it's age
that it's bones should be human and old
fissures and liver spots, loss of hair

where is that bride of my youth?
oh where the America of olden dreams
that austere continent, whos dark thatches
remained blushingly hid, not brazenly open

time changes place, and space
new mead carries semblances to the taste of old
and romance and longing for a time unknown
longs to supplant that root to my own place

today I wonder at today's own morn
this bit of time I call the present;
a time when things and jealousies rule
and lands and homes carry less and less

what plenty abides still in this land!
so much and more, a moveable feast
and we children rasied at this table edge
unknowing famine for that cust of bread

mark us out oh mighty God
true owner of that golden horn
give each of us our daily scone
and place thy hands upon our crowns

remake this land a mighty place
a changing place both tumultuous and calm
and wake this beauty from dusty age of sleep
to raise her banners up to the skies

-Jay
3-3-10

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