By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 8/6/08

Murderous marionettes, deranged dolls,
What happens when these encounter
The disposable resources of light’s
Usual afternoon profligacy?
Will they, too, feel the shivery affections
Playing through the multiplex of lines in
Swaying trees, and will they also see this
Horizon infested with spirit faces,
Hanging in the leaves and among
The curves and elbows of the branches?
It is easy to understand how the adult
Governing Bodies might disapprove,
And demand that we retreat from these
Arabesquing repercussions of green-blues
On the move. What if these inhuman
Faces become visible again, after millennia
Of absence? And what if the child
Is able to place his or her conditioned
Responses in a final, sweet abeyance?
The faces might come near, too near.
They might discover our sickness.
They might force us to once again
Deify these homely sticks as catalysts
Of the imagination. Oh, how they
Sweep their colors through the sky,
And inspire even dolls and marionettes
With the bliss of the indeterminate.
And how good it is to see the strings
Clump in clouds whose whites can soothe
Even the grossest, most murderous derangements.
Look. Look. See them now, the sufferers,
The ragged adults, tenderly carried, by these
Ministering little phantoms. One by one,
Ascending on wooden litters,
And placed, like happy bundles of yellow
Birds, among the exaltations of the branches.

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