Zero Hour
A Spring Poem
Before the fall, before the zero hour
Came, when we were all sick and tired, when we were
Bored of the brick red, the rust, of the old Rouge;
Rain on the Rouge, running like the river Styx,
Eating at the ice, our souls, at the hulking train,
Those tired reflections haunting the muddled road,
Before the countless stigmata's rose and waved
Their crimson hands, bloodied where the union was
Cut, where solidarity had held them fast,
When we were tired of cars, the spinning of wheels,
Sick of the cricket turning on its one leg,
Bored of its endless trek and its squeaky chirp,
Before the yellow bricks tapered to an end,
When we were sick and tired of nostalgic blues
Piled on us like hollow steel Stacktrain trailers,
When it was chic to be sick and tired and bored,
Sick of your spouse, tired of Ashley Madison,
Bored of what you had done and what you hadn't,
Before the black-hooded men brought the darkness,
When we were sick of the bleak rain, gray April,
Befouled snow and that skin of ice on the lake,
When the silver wolves clawed at our doors barking
For our last shiny nickels, but all we could
Give were the plastic pieces from our board-games.
Came, when we were all sick and tired, when we were
Bored of the brick red, the rust, of the old Rouge;
Rain on the Rouge, running like the river Styx,
Eating at the ice, our souls, at the hulking train,
Those tired reflections haunting the muddled road,
Before the countless stigmata's rose and waved
Their crimson hands, bloodied where the union was
Cut, where solidarity had held them fast,
When we were tired of cars, the spinning of wheels,
Sick of the cricket turning on its one leg,
Bored of its endless trek and its squeaky chirp,
Before the yellow bricks tapered to an end,
When we were sick and tired of nostalgic blues
Piled on us like hollow steel Stacktrain trailers,
When it was chic to be sick and tired and bored,
Sick of your spouse, tired of Ashley Madison,
Bored of what you had done and what you hadn't,
Before the black-hooded men brought the darkness,
When we were sick of the bleak rain, gray April,
Befouled snow and that skin of ice on the lake,
When the silver wolves clawed at our doors barking
For our last shiny nickels, but all we could
Give were the plastic pieces from our board-games.
Published by J L Carey Jr
J L Carey Jr, Author of the book Turning Pages, is a writer and an artist living in Michigan with his wife and three children. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from National University and a BA in Englis... View profile
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12 Comments
Post a CommentHow in the world did I miss this one too?? I am delighted with the last stanza. Having read many of the others, I think this would be a great piece to close (or round out) the overall work. How is "Estranged Union" going?
Great visuals, thanks.
Full of imagery - drew me deep into thought - Great job.
Being inspired by something is a wonderful feeling, I had the same with the movie Temple Grandin though I did not work long and hard- it flew off my pen and I chose not to edit.
BR@VO! Great book; great poem *****
Absolutely stunning J L. There's an anxious pulse that seems to run throughout this piece. I really /feel/ it.
Thank you everyone for your comments. I worked some time on this piece. It will likely be one of the final poems in "Estranged Union".
I come away with something different each time I read this. Fantastic piece.
powerful images- nostalgic- almost hopeless feel...wonderful poem beautiful work!
Nicely Written, thank you