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The Great Clock

The few trees left
bear fruit of flame that smudge their muddy bark.
There is wisdom in the glowing pomegranates
that whirl hissing to the ground like molten tears.
There is peace in the breathing
blue leaves of sky, a stormy beauty
in the dirty tricks of cloud.

When autumn goes, there is nothing left.
Lonely ashen spikes
fall into simple nonexistence,
await the quenching hush
of winter's white.

The people in the town
peep out through their shutters.
They wait breathless, rolling their big eyes
like bright apples along the slits of shade.
Outside, a single mottled arm directs the traffic of the wind,
guides the confused, gritty air
like a conductor shaping Shostakovich.

There is a long, smooth bridge with no one on it.
It opens into the dream, into the shadowed hills
beyond the river of birdsong — a hand of black glass
that reaches into the place we know is there
but can never see when we look for it.


So suddenly spring, the sun
on the bright horizon is falling in on itself,
leaving a magenta dimpled swirl
in the red brick dawn,
like a shimmering pink dust devil
trailing a dazzling wake of metallic feathers,
as if a wild, magic peacock molted as it climbed the sky.

The people flood out,
swelling the streets with human whirlpools,
swinging each other around in ever changing pairs,
an endless chain of arms locking and unlocking,
carelessly flinging each other into another.

A song, more a murmur,
rises from the crowd like smoke.
The rhythm, a hollow pulse,
throbs from the tower of the broken church
in the dead center of the square.
The great clock still tick ticks there,
incessantly monotonous as the beating of their hearts.

The old church burns like a witch, but no one seems to care.
New people come into town from across the bridge,
spiraling out of the darkness with no bodies at first.
No one anywhere has a face anyway, only red flame
heads smiling or snarling or opening like hungry mouths.

The clock tower, a black skeleton,
a charcoal sketch of itself,
collapses with a heaving sigh,
a litany of ash, a chiming of embers.
One at a time the people go home,
back to their shuttered houses,
back to their own dark beginnings.

credits

from Into Light: The Poems of M. D. Friedman, released January 1, 2024

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Mad Dog Friedman | Mad Dog Blues | Peddlers of Joy image

Mad Dog Friedman | Mad Dog Blues | Peddlers of Joy Lafayette, Colorado

Mad Dog writes from the moment and sings from his heart. His influences include sources as divergent as William Butler Yeats & the delta blues. His songwriting is sincere, simple & often humorous. He has recorded many solo & collaborative projects featuring his spontaneous compositions on harmonica, Native American flute & Theremin. He is also the founder of Mad Dog Blues & The Astral Project. ... more

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