There is not much use for this old poem,
the angels push off from shore on a raft,
the ion tallied poles make long ripples
in the brown water, glum
the heartbreakers remain
bare feet sinking in mud;
muttering dies away.
Who was not fierce in his day?
all elbows billowing
in white silk
jaw working endlessly
busy with marvels
to dazzle the eye
now forced to shuffle along
with the aid of glass faced children
his pride folded in sagging skin
the memory of still water
all that he can carry in his trembling hand.
Between plantings
he had angered the angels some
burdened with coins from far off places
he tainted the air;
a word upwind drifting to the river,
somehow never to return,
cover the body
its just as well
slow strokes into the current,
or fare thee well, old poem.
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You write as a man who knows and sees many things yet still learns. In my humble opinion I do not think 'old poem' is necessary in the last line, it seems superfluous. Almost flippant to toss aside something that had been well loved and used up and is now in its decadency. Speaks of life as well as poetry for once it is written or lived, it is gone.
MM
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myriads of flaws
each
a fierce wing
an unfinished story
hurry down the corridor
carried by the current
of me or I or us
and the air seems to move
but it's the only stillness
left around
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I agree with Lisa's comment but further to that it is in a style where I could quite easily read a 200 page book written this way. The writing has a character to it that enthralls and sweeps the reader along with its level of intelligence, compassion and of course literacy. This is a great piece.
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Every single thing dying ...
lives in another realm, or dies permanently. -
Somehow I can't help but think of Mr. Paul Newman reading this ...
and of course everything else that is important in this world.
Odd how you can do that.
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