This Poem was Submitted By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2016-03-30 15:16:18 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Of the Resurrection of the Dead

                     -1- Anonymous is dead, is dead. She killed herself, tired of being fed lies that didn’t have to look              into eyes of swelling dead philosophies, with invisible nods of assent. She is on Facebook, A Ruined Angel. Add her to your contact list,           and she will stare at you, and tell you.  Hold her orphans in your hands. Their mother made them, without           the help of another, like a starfish.  They were made like God made men. They are forever falling, cast off from Hell, not Eden: no footprints, no compass, no map, no home. Hold her orphans in your hands. They will kiss you, and more, if you do not ask for their papers, if you do not breathe the authorities'            “de donde eres"?                          -2- She is a little child in the dark. She closes her eyes, she sees where the darkness           came from.  The Northern Lights, the snake writhing. She closes her eyes, she sees the old religion,           the viper, and the wrath to come. She senses the ancient stain, and fantasizes. With her eyes on the stars, the ground breaks,            the earth as fragile as crystal.  She stops to pick its fruit. What kind of beginning is that, she asks, to be eternally damned            for picking its fruit? The dragon cannot touch her. He can watch her die, but he cannot touch her. Her questions slice, but she is faithful. The priest’s hands sweat when they give her absolution.                           -3-  There are sirens in the computer. They are beautiful, like A Ruined Angel;            the sea carries their voice through the portal.   They rise from an invisible aether, still smelling of salt and sulphur. They no longer sing death. They are still beautiful, as they were for Homer,           but their terror is now of the common order.  Sweet is the voice of the sirens. Are you afraid? The old remedies,  suck wound and spit poison, sacrament and flowered coffin,           remain.                           -4-   But Anonymous is dead, is dead. She bided the centuries, like lichen. Fool’s motley, nun’s habit, prisoner's            stave and a sigh like Tom O’ Bedlam.  She counted the rings on her straitjacket. She imagined hanging ribbons to them, so she did, with her ghostly hands. Then she spit out her pills in the toilet, stuck her tongue            out in the mirror, and went off looking for home.  Now she pops up on monitors, freed from her inquisitors, uncensored, the last trump           in her lips, which she demurs from blowing, for now, because she doesn’t need to.  This is the resurrection of the dead, on Facebook, A Ruined Angel.  Add her to your contact list, where she will stare at you, and tell you. 

Copyright © March 2016 Mark Steven Scheffer

Additional Notes:
Read by me: **** Too bad we don't have background music. Frank Sinatra's "There Used to be a Ballpark" would be perfect.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2016-04-07 10:21:33
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Imagination in overdrive, worthy of Poe. Me thinks this would make a excellent graphic novel.

This Poem was Critiqued By: DeniMari Z. On Date: 2016-04-05 21:17:45
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
There is so much in this poem; no one can dispute your lines and chosen words are always near perfect in place and that I for one am always pulled in deeper to your poems - and this has so many messages within it - it's hard to point out exactly one message of all - your verses - As technology blossoms and is ahead of itself at midnight every night - this world has dug deep in to being plugged in continuously for fear of missing something else - that surrounds them - it's an addiction to most - yet some still are ready and willing to pull away and get back out - This stanza really caught my eye; please enlighten me- the imagery is the finest I've seen. She counted the rings on her straitjacket. She imagined hanging ribbons to them, so she did, with her ghostly hands. Then she spit out her pills in the toilet, stuck her tongue out in the mirror, and went off looking for home. I have always been a fan of your poetry - and you always always - write the most beautiful poems - blessings, Deni
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