Selections From
MIRE SPRIGS
BEYOND THE PURPLE FRESIG
November 1987 to March 1988
CLOSER
Perhaps
God
is not
so far away
we cannot see Him
but
so close
we cannot see Him
with
natural eyes.
Eye
cannot see
the blood in my bloodstream
until slice of skin
and
shock of air
bring red
to the surface.
Eye
can see
a cross on a hill:
slice of skin
gasp of air
shock of red
brought
to the surface
and
Suddenly.
God is closer than
I thought.
THANKSGIVING DAY
Today the trees
are shimmering tambourines
in the wind
The air is
unwritten music
that swoops
through clouds and
shoots to the blue
and beyond
to the stars and
all
of this a cosmic waltz
upsurging in symphony
while
I dip a slice of turkey
in my
mashed potatoes and
non-speak my own
circus-full celebration
by chewing, swallowing
and thinking
how I'm
thanking You.
Hear "In The Tube" at rodsounds on Sound Cloud.
SLOW-SLIDERS
These slow-sliding
slither-globs
---snails---
sloooooosh forward,
slipping along
in their
blobbish, slobbish
squirminess,
slow, slower, slowest
of the
insect creatures
though,
upgraded from insect
to mollusk
and named,
of all things,
a ghastly name like
Gastropod.
Yet
the sulky, slimy
muddle-bug
---as he passes---
leaves a
flat trail of ooze
a jello-brick road
that
glistens,
even sparkles
in the
sunlight.
How about
that?
Why
Tell me why
a good man
has a tumor
in his head.
Tell me why
he may die
before these days
are passed.
Tell me.
Why good men
are stricken,
why children go hungry
and
buildings collapse.
Why people suffer.
Why people die.
Why the smallest ones,
floating in the quiet fluids,
are dealt death
at the very dawn of life.
Why every human being
is dragged down into
the depths
of eventual death.
Perhaps I hear the answer,
between the paper pages,
within the silent voice...
This is the twisted world.
This is the ravaged planet.
The Broken Paradise.
A forest made to thrive
now ablaze
in fiery sin.
All existence shrivels in the flames
that one day will consume.
And every flesh will die,
In the closing of the eye.
But every soul can live
In the Life the Rescuer gives.
Here and now
you've heard the voice,
Here on Earth
you make your choice.
(for Grady Stebbins)
On Hold
The days are strange
a city socked down
in mist,
whited out --
milked in neutral gray
while
a jet rips sound-scratches
in the foamy fabric sky
and I
squirm in my chair
at work,
shifting through
the endless, jibbled lists,
restacking papered buildings
while dreaming in video
and
hoping for tomorrow...
'till the mist calls, holding
me
on hold,
phone-tied
to Line Number 3.
LOS ANGELES!
The clouds
Sail the skies here,
Every tree is green,
Every house nestled in
flowery bushes
and
Every fence a musical keyboard.
The Birds
Are still in concert
In the bleachers
Of the mountain-sides.
The Doors
close and open
to fresh-day
open-air
down the street
adventures.
The Monkees
make monkey-music
singing
pleasant valley all-days
and believable day dreams.
Huge feathery air-noise jets
Roar into the blue
while
Palm Tree
Gentlemen and Ladies
watch the world,
their hair down
in their faces.
My heart pumps
Childhood Adventures
acting hours with boy-the-Kirk,
Major Matt Mason and
The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
my mouth crunches chips
and gulps
Maple syrup
as
Every pan is caked
and
Every Day is
Saturday.
Major Matt Mason | Napoleon and Illya from The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
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