Corm

Corm

noun: a rounded underground storage organ present in plants such as crocuses, gladioli, and cyclamens, consisting of a swollen stem base covered with scale leaves.

My rhythm method of sense,

A doggerel rap in recompense.

Searching rhyme and reason,
You too? We too? #MeToo?

Is this a change of season?

It’s dark, it’s night, in bed and warm
I metamorphose from Leafman to Corm

Dying, shrinking, crisping to dry,
Oozing down sinews to earth,

A bud still longing for sky

Savil, Weinstein and Spacey rise groping

And Trump with his pussy hands hoping.

Lunging, looming and grabbing they scan

As we cringe, hide and wince,

They boast, "I am man!"

I curse them, the bastards. We know what they've done.

In their darkest of hearts they've dimmed down our sun.

Stunned, for while, we've lost our way.
They perverted and dirtied what it means to be male.
They took our affection away.

We were the romancers

The lovers, the dancers

The poets, the painters of light.

Applauding the best we saw hope in the rest,

Just wanting it all to be right.

Some search for solace in #Metoo they groan
Despairing but sharing, no longer alone,
In the frost, winter bleak, on the hills.

It's somehow less grim as, huddling in,

We whisper and moan of our ills.

Feeling some hope we sense the cold.

Oh, to be strong if not bold.
We turn ears to darkness to catch what they say.
Shivering we nurture our candles,
To warm us and show us a way,

Yes, you evil, oppressors, abusers,

We tell tales of how you have used us,

With non-smiling grins on your faces.

You sullied and bullied in your lip curling toils,

And raped through your countless disgraces.

As you bruised on thrusting, onward in stealth
Entitled by power, prestige and your wealth

We stood aside watching your swagger.

You predators, losers, big-headed braggers,

You pathetic, buggers and shaggers.

We will not lie down!

Well we do but it's gone,
That sense, in loving, as two become one,

The joy as we touched has been smothered.

So, we pause, take care and try to fathom

New wants and needs of our others.

It's time to take stock

Turn back our clocks

Before we're too numbed to see.

To when nothing but us consumed our love,
To those times when our loving was free,

We will stride mountains with hope

Feel awe on their slopes

And find our consensual

We'll know we are blest

And finally rest

On Desire Lines that lead to our soul