Flamingo, Flamingo

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic
One of a collection of poems concerning religious and supernatural themes.

Submitted: April 13, 2014

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Submitted: April 13, 2014

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"Flamingo, Flamingo"

 

Fluffy white sheep,

Cotton ball clumps munching dumbly on the green,

Dewy grass – chew, chew, chew…

 

Look up!  Look up!

 

Can’t you halt –

Pause your gorging for fifteen seconds

To check your surroundings?

 

Look up!  Look up!

 

The scenery has grown so foreign, so alien.

These are not the familiar sun-warmed fields. 

And where is the shepherd?

 

Gone, gone, gone…

 

Is that even grass you’re eating –

Or something much more vile?

 

Look around!  Look around!

 

The afternoon shadows

Have warped

Into something more beastly,

More hungry.

Black and mangy fur,

Bristles made of shadow and bad intentions –

And glistening teeth filling dripping, wet jaws.

Eyes, eyes, wait for one of the flock to stray

From the sunny patches.

 

Ding-a-ling…

Dinner is served!

 

Flee!  Run!  Escape!

 

Fly back to the shepherd by any means, oh dandelion puffs –

Weak and brief of life.

Guard yourselves from the angry heat and dark breezes –

The fields stretch far.

The pastures extend wide.

The weeds of countless types, shapes, colors, forms…

But only the fleeting dandelion puffs with their eyes on the Sun

Will endure – even when blown and scattered,

A thousand seeds to the wind,

 

The thing will persist.

A beautiful little thought.

 

One wisp,

A pale feather of a seed soaring above the variegated grasses,

Destined to sprout and spread further

And further and further and further…

Oh glorious destiny!

Cut the thread, you jealous old Fates!

 

You decrepit hags, ancient wrinkled bags – you cannot hold

A dying ember to the beauty within this, a single floating speck.

 

Flying up, up higher into the fiery realm,

Until nothing is left but the Sun.

 

The plant is not what matters, nor the flower –

But the light shining down on its leaves,

Snowball seed head.

Light, warmth, honey-colored rays give way to red-hot pulses,

The great orb of life itself grows larger

Until all is consumed by its awesomeness.

 

A vision in cherry Kool-Aid.

 

Hours pass – the vision clears,

Melting away into night.

The wolves rush about in packs.  Driven by empty stomachs

Turning from hunger.  Growls and roars,

Cry out in the inky black.

Aimless pangs yelp out…

Feeding – feasting on ev’rything,

Anything without success, nothing of this world

Will fill the void inside.  The hunt continues.

 

The pack moves on – still starving.

 

From the recess of the twilight a laugh is heard, almost heard,

The old candlestick holder – long ago fired,

Still holding his extinguished candle chuckles at the joke.

He knows the feeling – he too is hungry, always hungry.

 

Power!  Power!  Power!

 

A lion on the savannah of Tanzania

Pounces an unsuspecting gazelle.

The lion sinks his fangs deep into the deer’s throat –

Awaiting the warm, crimson gift.

 

But nothing gushes out – nothing!

The deer crumbles to ash! 

 

Ash!

 

The lion sighs a heavy sigh –

Yells skyward angrily –

Then finally laughs (this is an old game).

 

The candlestick holder smirks, turning – soon, very soon.

Once the light-bearer of the king,

Now thrown into ‘bysmal and meager life as a beggar among

The night – always hungry.

Desperate for blood.

Desperate for revenge.

 

Ravenous creature with an ancient bone to pick.

 

Flamingo, flamingo –

Rosy bird, go and tell Mandingo

To begin the revolt against the naughty things,

The two hundred and thirty-six things we ought not do.

 

It’s true!  It’s true!

 

Begin the slave revolution against the evil one –

We’ve a new master now!

Flamingo, flamingo –

Stop eating your shrimp cocktails

And drinking pink paint! 

You think this is a joke?

Well, it ain’t!

Some serious mischief is goin’ on in the Cosmos –

And everybody (but you apparently) knows!

 

Dinner bell chimes. 

 

Thought processes of universal workings are dashed to bits as…

Three, four dozen charbroiled oysters on the half shell,

Enough a’feast to make the Walrus and the Carpenter jealous.

Miss America, the Joker, and I sit chatting,

Shoveling them down by twos and threes –

Gobbled down quick as they come…


© Copyright 2018 AlexCarolOates. All rights reserved.

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