Moran Watches Progress Happen

July 20, 2012 by JOB at 1:49 pm

I watch the snow. It’s falling harder,
Suspended in Seattle’s show
Of lights, diffusing urban ardor
In winter’s industrial glow.
As wind demands a votive candle
To yield, so breezes tease and fondle
A flame to St. Vitus’ dance,
To flick the nave or lick the sconce,
And cast a creep of sullen shadows…
But Seattle’s progress, her mien,
Is set as cold cathedral stone
Against her fiery past. What follows?
A thread of flame, a needled fire,
And stitching brick, electric wire.

Subscribe to this author's posts feed via RSS

6 Comments Filed Under: Happy Birthday Dear Pushkin, JOB, JOB's poetry, pushkin, Seattle Tagged With: modern progress is the diminishing returns of looking at the wrong end of a telescope

Comments

Angelico Nguyen, Esq., OP says:

July 20, 2012 at 1:51 pm

Change we can believe in.

Thanks JOB.

Reply
- JOB says:
  
  July 20, 2012 at 2:00 pm
  
  By my count, we’re at 25 or 26 – and if anyone else has any more, I think we only about ten or so more to hit that magic death-year number.
  
  Reply
  - Matthew Lickona says:
    
    July 20, 2012 at 4:50 pm
    
    I can promise one, but just one.
    
    Reply
    - JOB says:
      
      July 21, 2012 at 7:58 am
      
      Be firm.
      
      JOB
      
      Reply
      - Matthew Lickona says:
        
        July 21, 2012 at 5:17 pm
        
        Why am I soft in the middle now?
        The rest of my life is so hard…
        
        Reply
Quin Finnegan says:

July 21, 2012 at 8:16 am

I love this one, of course. Thanks, JOB.

Reply