A Sleeping Giant, #119

What slunk our Giant,
whose thick eyelids drooped
down over his dense
unmovable eyes,
his mucus filled eyes
glazed over and rolled
back into his head,
his head thumped upon
by a fist or club
that has left a bump
of such gigantic
proportions that we
at once hailed the best
doctor practicing
in the Provinces.

The slumbering beast,
asleep for dozens
of thousands of years,
who dreams of fairies
and wee knoblet goons
that inhabit trees
and scamper along
the edge of meadows
to stammer the stories
of the angry clouds
rolling up over
the horizon. Dream
sweet giant, tender
and beat upon beast.
We will not wake you

The beast who’s sleeping
since last an eon,
who rarely got sleep
before the drama
of the invasion
of our mystery
assailant, who clocked
the giant upside
his tender noggin
and knocked together
the crusty edges
of his craggly ears
and the cold tile
of the cobblestones.

Our authorities
investigate, find
the Giant must’ve
clocked hard his own head,
fell asleep to rest
his sad Giant knees,
which they knew were bad
from seeing them hung
over their heads. But
his head, and it’s bruise
so far up and strange
they knew little facts
about which bumps fit
and which could be caused
by an intention.

The sad ugly backs
of his Giant knees,
over time he lay
face down and snoring
they grew a lichen,
moss believe to have
magic properties,
medicinal use.
The farmers harvest
small niblets of it
to add to their feed
and grow Giant cows
for humongous steaks
sold to restaurants
at a premium.

Our Giant, his thick
vocal chords, opened
and closed, burbling
a mysterious noise
that sometimes sounds like
a train rumbling,
and others like wings
on an enormous
butterfly. His song
fluttering along
the narrow forest
floor, paths and trails
up through our good dreams
brung by buoying
along the night breeze.

The winnowy snakes
of hairs on his arms
grown up and over
the contours his form
makes in the soil,
mixing with the tree
trunks, wrapped like a hug
around the bases,
giving added girth
and stability
to the high branches
and their vast green leaves
turned toward the sunlight
in the day, swaying
along the night breeze.

What sent the giant
to sleep, assailant
or an accident,
has released these gifts
we take and abuse
as if they’ve always
have and will exist,
and no one offers
much up in return
to our sad Giant,
our giving body.
So I admit, what sent
our Giant to sleep
and keeps our Giant
aslumber wakes me.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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