A quiet disbelief in nothing
Come on
If not, cover his coffin,
Come on
If not, cover his coffin
My friend is dead!
......
To those who carry his coffin
There is a secret that is not in the oceans
Nor in the present, past or future.
For there was no flower in his heart.
Only love.
Plain and simple.
......
In these days of curiosity.
A tribute first to her who bore me.
.......
Before covering him with the soil of earth
What flower should be taken from the heart
Of a loving dog called Charlie
Who only ever used his muscled strength in defence of those he truly loved?
Humans, cover your faces with shingles. Be ashamed of your artful cowardice.
Also a paw print does not count as a signature in the record of his life, it is blotted out.
Except in art.
I want to go back to the flower but
I have to go back to his heart
The moment before death
There was no time to tell him the truth
With cold water pouring over his soul.
Our remains still stick in the mud.
......
If not, cover his coffin
If not, cover his coffin
Please cover his coffin, now.
My friend is dead!
.....
Only a short time in the cell of life.
Others look at me in disbelief.
Laughing loudly: a dog, only a dog.
These bastards live in a prison of their own making
They are the meaning of contempt.
Soothing themselves in their cells
The black walls of their egos
Amid their fashionable knick-knacks: houses, cars, suits, trash
They sound so stupid to me.
Discovering India. Takes time.
......
I was sentenced to prison.
Sentenced to life
But I escaped.
Four were in my cell.
And a neat combination of idiots they were.
Those who fight in imaginary wars
And from the top of the hill shout:
Get out of the way!
.....
I am taking my friend to his funeral.
I am leading the way
It is no punishment for me.
I spent only a short time in the cell of self.
They look at me in disbelief.
Laughing loudly at a dog.
Only a dog.
John Marks
Mon 11th May 2020 06:57
Thank you dear Cathy, Tom and Jon. Your support is vital to me - the genre of the longer poem is new to me. It is a sort of confessional poem. Maybe a touch like the work of the American poet Robert Lowell ('Skunk Hour' or 'For the Union Dead' for example). Though it is a while since I've read his work. Also, come to think of it, another American poet's work is, maybe, influential, Robert Frost and his most famous poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." Who knows where poems come from?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell
Of saddest thought.
Percy Bysshe Shelley,