Rage, Rage
26
In my dreams, I track
the sails of drifting ships,
white moths fluttering
before the wind.
I think I have caught them
in overnight traps,
but they fly each morning
in dawn’s unforgiving light.
I give chase
with pen and paper,
fine butterfly nets
with which to catch
and tame wild thoughts.
I grasp at things
just beyond my fingertips.
I wake up each morning
unaware of where
I have traveled
in my dreams.
Comment:
White moths fluttering before the wind – my dreams at night. How do I trap them, catch them, squeeze them between my fingers, hold them, pin them to the show case of memory? I remember in Oaxaca – the young boys, trapping the moths. Huge, gigantic butterflies, moths, as large as birds. They severed their wings, and sold them to the passing tourists. Such beauty, such colour.
I heard an angry buzzing, looked down, and saw flightless bodies, wings clipped, rowing their stumps of bunt oars, skidding sideways across the gutters, and dreaming painfully of the stars.
Bonus Poem
Dreams
White moths fluttering
before the wind
my dreams at night.
How do I catch them,
trap them,
pin them
in memory’s showcase?
In Oaxaca
young boys traps moths.
Gigantic moths,
huge jungle butterflies,
as large as birds.
They cut off their wings,
sell them like postcards
to passing tourists.
I hear
an angry buzzing
and look down.
Flightless bodies,
wings clipped,
rowing stumps of blunt oars,
skidding sideways
across the gutters
dreaming painfully
about the stars.
rogermoorepoet 