Poetry: Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar

Unravelling Pineal Wool



Shadows prelude the vision – 

      harbinger cardinals
          of the compass spun flighty

red herrings and pirate flags
    arrive stealthily 
          to seal the chamber
      & cancel crises
              in their cradle

Twilight of the dawn – 

       the fun & games
                portion of light’s program/process
   has encountered a twist
                                    of fate
             around the schisms 
                      of its subtly hewn center

      strings pulled
            on war props
        by pompous priests
                  & trigger happy
                          thieves of reason

Swallowed by the silence – 

        it’s a lost art/
     fractured line of communication

             two-sided daggers
                       twisted in five directions

      & blood loosened
                   upon the sands
            would fill only half a thimble
                          compared to the ocean
                 of splintered hearts
                              & grieving homes
              flooded by tears
 
                        struggling to stay afloat
                    in the waves of disbelief
***
Of Sheathes and Gloves

and all these crows
and ravens still
clatter/clammer 
at my mettle/mantle

Since the bench
is iced with snow
I’ll stand instead
with pen under gazebo

another classic album to digest

but there is the heart of
a Maryland grackle
that conquers all

I am of the worms
and with the angels

Lions and lizards
surround us
in the safety of
our sanctuary

Sentinels
guard our six

and everything 
everywhere
is a miracle

or at least 
biding time
and holding the line
in anticipation of the next

I dive into
the medicinal garden
and surrender my consciousness
at caduceus’ doorstep
to rest and dwell
in a warm soft glow

numbed enlightenment
in doses
just high enough
not to completely
dissimilate

and ask for more comfort
and beg for more grace

and whistle while
the prayers flow gently

Truth be told
I must have grown old
but forgotten to notice

Out in the cold
scribbling poems
from a spirt
that yearns for innocence

Clinging to the fibers
of decency
left twirling
in this late hour
of our winter wargames

But lord have mercy
it’s all just numbers
in the sick schemes
of hyenas
who bit off more
than their
whimpering bark
could cash
in the crash 
backed only
by funny
money
 

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