Oz Revisited

Never Kansas or the little people –
always the shrill falsetto wingthrum
of the descending ebon marauders,
deadpan eyes and honed incisors,
maquillage of celluloid phantasms –
always the monkeys; from out of
the nightmare’s thin aired pith,
a fear so complete, so forever.

The child’s cry from the other room
plummets through the loess of sleep,
stirs me to action; moves me through
twenty five years of disturbed dust
to rouse the bearing and certitude
of my father – then off stumbling,
through the darkness of the night,
to comfort a shaken form returned.

- The Fool
- This posting first appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2006