At Hardscrabble Creek

deviant art by feimo


At Hardscrabble Creek
(Part 5 of American Pastoral)

Water passes over rocks
whispering of baptismal suffering,
of endless mysteries.
I'm unremarkable it seems to say.
Essence of water and blood my destiny.
My hands get dirty.
I am bound by insatiable appetites,
by the unfathomable and dark graffiti
marking with scars my private sanctuaries
and yet, when I was born
the world began again, knowing neither
of success or failure but asking
all the questions that really matter
echoing inside me: I am not alone.

From hip, bop, punk rock,
lyrical and concrete. Up from New York,
Black Mountain and San Francisco streets
come incantations caught
in the head lights of my own mind
calling for an end to hypocrisy.
Be real, they say. Be honest.
No voice stifled. No cruelty condoned.
No injustice unredeemed.

2005 Scott Malby

Posted over on A Little Poetry
In the words of Mr. Malby: "When among singing birds, it's not wise to crow about yourself. I'm a rooster without portfolio in a barnyard of hype. From Coos Bay, Oregon, I invite you to *google* me."