THE VOICE OF DEATH, THE VOICE OF LOVE & THE VOICE OF ART

entry picture

A whole life spent out of kilter
Every day out of whack
So when the storm hit
And everything went kerflooey
I was ill-prepared.
There’s 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, autumn day
When all the words
Just drained away

Leaving me aghast.
With nothing to say.

……

This inner city cul-de-sac is littered
With the paltry remains of men
Who spent their
À la recherche du temps perdu
And there was nothing that they could do

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
Transferred us to where the sky is a placid place of pellucid blue
And where the last lonely eagle
Flies, screams in search of her broken nest,
And where every dog has her summer-scented day
Lying in the shade, in his own inimitable way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

◄ poetry is...

Crimson & Clover ►

Comments

No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message