Poetry & Prose by Jo VonBargen

How oceans will say it, in
billowing terms, is
one thing. How wind blows far
is another

Arcs of the ages finely
supposing old vintage blood
scream numberless
faces, streams of existence
carved on a tree…
I WAS HERE

Nakedness, meshed with the night.

Stars caught fast in a net
of dimensions…raging, seething,
fast computing fine ringlets
of darkness and fable,
hyperbole, long empty shadow,
all logged on a helix of
parchment, white.

Til the axial pole of the moon.

How pure it was lain,
far out of range, heaven itself
bestowed. No animal trace
covered that place
with dark blood.

Forsaking the ether, a slumbering
body approached in a
trice, trailing dead ice
and live pandemonium. Clouds
disembarked reclaimable
turf, swooping to earth like
a plague.

Appalling, the crystalline ruin.

Rancors demurred in
humanity’s shame, pointing
the blame at time and tide, that
refuge of cowering fools.

At last, Silence.

A solitude, rimmed. Dreams, dead
in a heap, like ants.
No widow’s weeds, no plea for
mercy, no banished Winter
vanished to Spring…but
a gossamer shroud, blue haze of
smoke, curling the last
global pall.

The traitor betrayed, on a deadline verge.

And on the periphery, pitch.

–Jo (early nineties)