Ars Atritatis

My heritage is unto me as a lion in the forest; it cries out against me…

I.

I was born to a dream,

a dream to make mine

my pleasant portion

now the left bank

of a snotgreen retention pond

II.

We helped log our Aborvitae

for lumber to build housing projects

We would be perplexed at the new tree—

the hollow harvest bears only strange fruits—

but for the squabbles over bread-scraps

III.

and though the white fox ends

his gnashing tips in the tender necks of lambs

he also saves the thoughtless flocks

from their wandering, wooly servitude

which meets its end

at the farmer’s blade

is that not merciful?

IV.

I looked out

from the stoop of my log cabin

over the green morning of the blooming lake

and watched two blackbirds fighting

over the fleshy stone of a fruit

silently a white fox snuck

and devoured all three

I turned my eyes down

and kept writing

by: Raymond Alistair

The Unexpected Perspective

Sanatorium Haikus

Far Enough Photo

The sink is my friend.
I twist his eyebrows and then
Drown inside his tears.

Far Enough Photo

Dead notes make no noise.
Add a breeze and watch them dance,
Alive without sound.

Far Enough Photo

Sentry on the wall:
Face him out and feed his mouth.
No visitors now.

by: Raymond Alistair

Please visit Far Enough Photo for more wonderful photography!

Daydream of Mabus Circa 2002

What might have been expected was me doting,
Cloud-walking, face illuminated.
But instead,
Trumpets, calling under the skylights,
Stop time with intent to kill.
The magic synthesis of red drops and
raid-sirens circles like symbolic logic.
All over, marching boys triumph
Over the shadows spoken by an idiot.
The marching boys,
Chosen, are cast adrift
under the disguise of love
To find deep cover and wait for the night,
To dream of April hopes
And of whatever love is.
I am caught,
Where the light falls in this world of dreams,
Wishing on a comet.

by: Raymond Alistair

Taken from http://www.worldatlas.com/webimage/countrys/asia/afghanistan/afpics/descriptionpics/bamiyanvalley.jpg

The Herd

            I, in my infinite hypocrisy,

Despised from my mountain cove

The bleating sheep roving, filling the knoll,

Caught up in their ritual dereism.

            I, from my high hovel,

Descried that white pool of heads, bobbing hinds,

Moving as water does

In pipes beneath the populous.

            I, through the clouds around my cave,

Cried to the hopeless herd,

Grided my stones together, against the earth.

Neither I nor my voice

Resonates

With the symphony of the sheep

Pasturing there in the grassy field.

by: Raymond Alistair

 Reflective Light Photography