that rattle around
inside head and chest,
give no rest,
instead
want to explode
from traces
meant to keep
proper places,
deepening desire
to stampede
forward, smack
hard ground with iron
hooves, leaving all
polite moves
to the timid.
Prefer to strike sparks,
possibly leave burn marks
on heads that refuse
to listen: would
choose to ignore
rumbling thunder
headed in their
direction. Close
eyes to obvious,
with ears muffled,
mouths muzzled
by years of ignorance
about to be struck
by lightening.
Words seek release,
refuse to be stalled,
stilled, cajoled, reined
in by leathery strips
of memory of what could,
would more than likely
happen should they ever
be allowed
to be spoken.
Elizabeth Crawford 7/10/09
Soul's Music 