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Maelstrom

Maelstrom

A man is pitched through the door
by blasts from steppes.
Scrub and cactus land,
Earth’s belly has been ripped open,
giving birth to grit and death.
Gloom is ushered in by a maelstrom of dust.
Tumbleweed scratches at windows,
spidery skeletons seeking shelter
from relentless wind.

Our orchard, clothed in pale shrouds,
gashed trees lean on sheds and plough.
Earth’s face is prematurely wrinkled, dry.
An old hag, her innards
tense as the skin of a kultrún. *
Trampled on for centuries
by cloven hooves of alien herds.

She’s powder, an earthen pyre,
genitals raped by natural forces
devouring rich layers of fertility.
Hag’s eyes are tearless,
not rained a drop in eons;
on this devastation
lie the dying... lies all hope.

My man’s face is seared with dust,
eyelids heavy with gray desperation.
Sweat has succumbed to an earthy mask,
dry runnels on his cheeks,
scarred hole of his mouth.
No man ever gained over December’s wind.
He drops his clothes in a sad heap,
opens his arms to my cool body,
presses me tight to his patient heart.

Uncanny silence,
a sickle moon will knife Patagonian skies,
overlooking centennial shadows
cast in sword and catastrophe.

* Kultrun = Concave drum with painted mandala. Used by Mapuche, i.e, Earth People.

Hi everbody, can I get some crits for my poem? Feeling left out, because I always comment on your posts.

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"My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies; fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die, I can fly, my friends.” – Freddie Mercury

author comment

Is my poem in the wrong forum, again? I really would like some comments. Feeling sad at being ignored.

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"My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies; fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die, I can fly, my friends.” – Freddie Mercury

author comment

Very moving picture of a farmer that is at the mercy of Mother Nature. he seems as dried up and worn as the soil he tries to get a crop out of. A story about farmers all over the world, struggling to make a living.
~ Geezer.
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Come to chat every Thursday - 3:30 to 4:30 pm. EST.
With: c Lynn Brooks and Geezer

Thank you, Gee. I grew up on a lovely farm in a rich valley, but my father had to work as well on an estancia that was mainly dry bushland. That's where the winds were especially fierce, starting in December. It's the sheep and cows that mainly desertify the land.
Tx again for coming over.

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"My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies; fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die, I can fly, my friends.” – Freddie Mercury

author comment

as I ask and post it in the stream? The forum is NOT the place where everyone posts. ~ Geezer.
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Come to chat every Thursday - 3:30 to 4:30 pm. EST.
With: c Lynn Brooks and Geezer

OK, Gee, could you please copy and paste my poem Maelstrom wherever you people post yours, because for the life of me I don't understand. It's exactly where all the others are. Tx

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"My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies; fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die, I can fly, my friends.” – Freddie Mercury

author comment

I liked it, and a darkly viewed sort of thing.

Very dire poem. A few ideas :
A body is thrown through the door--- this would allow the reader whether man or woman ti identify also clarify the body is dead
by blasts from steppes.
In the scrub and cactus land,---- maybe a bit smoother?
Earth’s belly has been ripped open,
giving birth to grit and death.
Gloom is ushered in by a maelstrom of dust.
Tumbleweeds scratch at windows,----- for some reason it just reads better to me lol
spidery skeletons seeking shelter
from relentless wind.

Our orchard, clothed in pale shrouds,
gashed trees lean on sheds and plough.
Earth’s face is prematurely wrinkled, dry.
An old hag, her innards
tense as the skin of a kultrún. *
Trampled on for centuries
by cloven hooves of alien herds.

She has become powder, an earthen pyre,-----implies the time when she wasn't
genitals raped by natural forces
devouring all layers of fertility.----- If you Don't mean no layers are left ignore this
Hag’s eyes are tearless,
not a drop of rain in eons;-----again, just somehow sounds better to me
Upon this devastation----- maybe more poetic?
lie the dying... lies all hope.

My man’s face is seared with dust,
eyelids heavy with gray desperation.
Sweat has succumbed to an earthy mask,
dry runnels on his cheeks,
scarred hole of his mouth.
No man ever made gain over December’s wind.-----just a different wording you can consider
He drops his clothes in a sad heap,
opens his arms to my cool body,
presses me tight to his patient heart.

Uncanny silence,
a sickle moon will reap Patagonian skies,----sickles reap they don't stab
overlooking centennial shadows
cast in sword and catastrophe.

OK I hope this wasn't too much lol

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Hello, thanks so much for your thorough examination of my poem. I shall have to return and make some of the changes you suggest, most of which are good. But the man is not a dead body, he's blown in by the maelstrom.
I just mean that the sickle moon is as clear as a knife in the night sky. But I'll think it over, because reap wont do.
Again, highly grateful for the trouble you've taken. I shall re-word several lines.
All the best, Gracy

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"My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies; fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die, I can fly, my friends.” – Freddie Mercury

author comment
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