{"id":2730,"date":"2016-04-11T02:57:02","date_gmt":"2016-04-11T02:57:02","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?page_id=2730"},"modified":"2016-04-11T02:57:02","modified_gmt":"2016-04-11T02:57:02","slug":"s-coomer-april-2016","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/s-coomer-april-2016\/","title":{"rendered":"A.S. Coomer, April 2016"},"content":{"rendered":"

Nocturne #1<\/strong><\/p>\n

The nation of night
\nwaving the flag of darkness
\nbrings all under the same iron-fisted regime.<\/p>\n

Scornful daylight highlights the minute
\ndifferences of bodies: all ornamental,
\nornately cosmetic but nothing more.<\/p>\n

All are slaves to the wakeless, slithering night;
\nthe master of all, protector of none.<\/p>\n

Sheep, we the people,
\nherded by our Dark Mother;
\neyes bright with fright,
\ninto the frigid, strangely resplendent,
\nbut terribly tenebrific stygian wasteland,<\/p>\n

yes, dark is the night,<\/p>\n

that which engulfs all not a stone\u2019s throw
\nfrom light-spitting twilight.<\/p>\n

Swaddled babes, these nations of men,
\nbuilding up arsenals, building up walls,
\nflipping sentences, hurdling words, all hot air acrobatics,
\ntongue tied deportment,
\nflashes in spotless laboratories, tests and tests and results,
\nnumbers and theories and schemes, plans;<\/p>\n

but here She comes into the sanctity of your mahogany boardroom.
\nHere She comes into the verdant garden of Gethsemane.
\nHere She comes into the faux lilac shroud of your basement laundry room.
\nAnd here She comes into the prison bright florescent lights of the final class of the day.<\/p>\n

Swinging with the time-rusted scythe,
\nShe watches life fly through one
\nlast surprised sigh only half-finished
\nbut now dreadfully complete.<\/p>\n

I guess, maybe we should wish
\neach other a final goodbye,
\na contingency really,<\/p>\n

something akin to the knocking of wood
\nor the left shouldered tossing of salt,
\noften in triplicate,<\/p>\n

just before we close our light wearied,
\nday-crusted eyes to sleep
\nbecause waking is never promised.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A.S. Coomer is a writer. He likes cats, books & comics. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in issues of Red Fez, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Blotterature, Literary Orphans Journal, The Quill, Flash Fiction Magazine, Oxford Magazine, The Poets Without Limits, The Broadkill Review, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Visual Verse, Thirteen Myna Birds, Toledo Streets, 101 Words, Intrinsick Magazine<\/strong> and Serving House Journal<\/strong>. You can find him at www.ascoomer.wordpress.com.<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Nocturne #1 The nation of night waving the flag of darkness brings all under the same iron-fisted regime. Scornful daylight highlights the minute differences of bodies: all ornamental, ornately cosmetic but nothing more. All are slaves to the wakeless, slithering night; the master of all, protector of none. Sheep, we the people, herded by our […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2730","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nA.S. 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