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.

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◄ Infant mortality

The swan's last waltz ►

Comments

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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,

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Vautaw

Mon 11th May 2020 02:33

The way your words wring out the soul’s desperation leaves me in awe. To be able to express one’s passion and pain in such a profound way is a gift from the gods to show us mortals that life is experienced once through the veil and again through a poet’s looking glass. Superb!

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Tom

Sun 10th May 2020 12:19

Every line is tight and true. Brilliant John!

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