Sometimes a wild god

Told I this in tales of yore
the mortal daughter of Irra  
existing in Akkadian fields  
was set upon by villains  
torn and struck she fell supine  
silent screams of spilled blood  
reached her father in slumber  
with his consort Mami  
  
Roar his rank upon the sky  
screams of righteous rage  
ripped the tormented firmament  
swirled in grey the tapestry  
of life within the glory  
of created existence  
trembled and pulse  
in terrified horror  
   
Irra in fury rode again  
God of all gods of pestilence  
with his seven generals  
sought he hard the men  
who shattered his child  
his beloved only mortal child  
the slayers shall be hounded  
without sanctuary  
   
Upon the land of the wicked men  
he ran his legions close to earth  
fire from swords forged    
with sulphur and brimstone    
coldness from the wells  
of famine and hunger  
he seeded and sowed the land  
relentless in his rage  
   
His screams of anger  
thundered in the sky  
his relentless fury  
birth cracking lightning  
the sea trembled and tossed  
the land cracked and rumbled  
nothing was left standing  
Irra’s fury was complete  
   
Untill at last the Eastern Prince  
calmed the land with His Love  
his promises and Atonement  
to give His Life for the sins  
of man who killed    
and plundered  
without shame  
turbulence rested.

---at othertimes
gone quite tame---  
---even to the point of lame;  
allow me to digress  
  
Streamed consciousness  
at the table --- we pen its flow;  
whatever dreamed manifests  
is quantified as poetry, although    
   
what is it really?  
Your guess  
is as good as mine  
   
but this you must know:    
your interpretations  
will do just fine  
   
From their vinegar  
just keep wine making  
   
assign meaning to any bodily  
bearing, every summarily snaking  
   
and regarding pelican, fox, otter  
stag, wren ---- from your own    
process of association grab-bag  
draw whatever conclusion when  
the dog you are isn't thrown a bone  
   
And if it so happens  
   
[ or if shit happens ]  
   
[ [ whichever happens first ] ]  
   
that out from a quote unquote poet's  
ass suddenly does burst a wild god    
in a rush to be heard?  
   
Do not believe a word said  
   
Instead, usher it    
straight to the nearest  
porcelain throne exit    
and be sure to do us  
a courtesy flush  
   
   
 

A river flows through
diluting waste from the village  
Birds stop to bathe and stare longingly
at bugs skimming the surface.
 
Toddlers splash naked on the shore
as older siblings turn dirt white over and again
A fish jumps into itself a stone’s throw away
as an eagle takes its final flight overhead.  
 
Upstream a woman comes quietly  
on sun-drenched driftwood
Humming softly, her mate throws out his net further down, capturing the eternal now yet again.
 
A half-submerged canoe laps gentle waves
as sand crabs hunt hurriedly under the merciful shade of its decay
A red paint chip gives at last and floats away
it, too, becoming one with the (in)finite.
 
R.

Maybe a wild god will cross your path.
They are terrible to behold
And do not know the ways
Of machine, of media, and of magazines
Their voice makes tales that twists time.
 
When the wild god passes your door
You will not know them.
They are an echo in the dark
A memory locked away
And the shrine you no longer visit.
 
They will not need to knock or ring
As the door will be open
Introduced as wind whips the leaves
Through a crack in the everyday
Shall they enter and bloom.
 
You do not know how to let them in,
Always too busy for the unknown
Cowering behind the threshold
Too fearful to look
In case you hunger for what you see.
 
The birds bolt away
The wild god smiles,
You meet their gaze
They wave a hand
The frantic flapping stops.
 
The wild god looks you over
Fires reignite in your soul,
Passion thrashes through your mind
And your blood remembers how to run
To a beat long overlooked and forgotten.
 
'Nice day' you say
And fail to convey the surrounding majesty.
They nod, smile, and raise an eyebrow
Symphonies sing in your soul
There are endless colours in your palette.
 
A neighbour passes by
You each raise a hand and
Exchanging regards.
They do not see near you
The stranger shaking your world.
 
The wild god asks for the time
And you blink and try to think
Asking yourself the same question
Ageless desire thrums  
In your spine. You dance.
 
Oh, unending time
Oh, uncountable marvels
Oh, infinite miracles of every small thing
Oh, the wonders of life
Oh, the fantastical joy of it all.
 
You blink again,
Extricating the desire and
Watch clouds pass by
Wondering how the time passed
And where your dreams went.
 
The wild god reaches into a coat
Made of butterfly wings and spider silk
Pulls out a book,
Traces a line with finger and speech
And all the earth begins to rumble.
 
Your blood boils over.
Thoughts rush over each other.
Your muscles judder and shake.
The birds drop to the ground.
Your neighbour both hopes and despairs.
 
The wild god opens their mouth.
You move with all music
The clouds pull back in the sky
And the moon peeks forth
A car alarm crescendos and fades.
 
In the distance, ships scrape from sea beds
Ancient weapons grow like cornrows in the fields.
Everyone remembers long faded daydreams.
The roads rattle and bricks clatter
To hopes and madness and pleasure.
 
'Why did you not take me with you?'
Asks the wild god and you say:
'I grew up and older.
The parties were all cancelled;
I forgot your address. I'm sorry.'
 
Feel them;
 
The rushing in your blood and
The singing in your soul and
The passion and the desire and the dreams...
The great un-nameable beats
In your brain and your bones and your heart...
 
There is a revolution of spirit.
An orchestra of change.
The wild god cock their head and
You flinch against a tree holding a letter,
A twig and a finger covered in cobwebs.
 
The birds coo in the trees above.
Your neighbour is walking further down the street.
Your stomach aches from laughing
Your limbs ache from dancing or exertion.
A photograph is in your pocket.
 
Maybe a wild god will cross your path.
They are terrible to behold
And do not know the ways
Of machine, of media, and of magazines
Their voice makes tales that twists time.