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

 

---

Setu, February 2024