The voice of death, the voice of love and the voice of art.

Your whole life spent out of kilter,

Every day out of whack,

So when the storm hit

And everything went kerflooey,

We were ill-prepared.

No going back.


Now, if a little dreaming is dangerous

Is the cure to dream more?

O! I wish you were here:

On this sad, spring day

When all the words that ever were

Just drained away

Leaving me aghast.

With nothing to say.


This inner city cul-de-sac is littered

With the paltry remains of a man

Who spent his sacred time

À la recherche du temps perdu:

Doing what he could,

Doing what she can-can.


That would never do

For the ghost-dancers of the Sioux

Who soared into eternity

As if every word they ever knew

Rhymed with blood.


Metal door locks are not required

For, from today, even the prisons have retired

From the fray, lockdown has its way,

We are transferred to where the sky is a placid place of pellucid blue

And where the last lonely eagle

Flies, screaming,  in search of her broken nest,

And where every dog has her summer-scented day

Lying in the shade in his own inimitable way.

Image result for dog lying in the shade

◄ Tableau vivant

i.m. John Donne ►


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Thu 19th Mar 2020 01:24

I could read your poems all day. Brilliant. ❤️🔥

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