Damn the Dead, November o9, 2o14

Sunday

Yep! A new poem! I wrote it in a couple of days for a poetry challenge on a poetry site. This is the original picture on the left (no, your other left. Hee!).

I'm not totally satisfied with what I wrote. Well, that's always the case with me, isn't it? But challenges force you to write faster than you normally would. However, the key to writing is to write on a dime . . .  that is to say, to write without necessarily being inspired  . . . just write, put something on the page and let inspiration find you busy at work. Nothing coaxes inspiration more than you writing . . . it is always curious to know what the hell you are up to with your pen in hand scratching away at a blank piece of paper, or hunched over your computer board and chicken picking at the keys. Once you got her attention, she's always more than willing to help out . . . most times. So, the new poem is inspired by this picture an as usual I take different take on it than is expected. I even changed the picture a bit. Hope that's not cheating . . .

Damn the Dead

 

I’ll paint an ocean on the floor
Submerge myself within its foam
And hope that someone on the shore

Will pull me out and drag the body home.

 

I hope the loathsome gulls adrift above

My soggy head, I hope they screech prophetic sorrow,

I pray my stoic exes may willfully cry, “Why, oh, why, my only love?”

As the gardener props me up outside his humble burrow.

 

I will not die at sea and let the portly sharks devour me.

I will not die as I have lived alone without a single friend

Alive to mourn my getting on. I wouldn’t like to be
An unknown pauper buried in a massive grave and then pretend

 

It doesn’t matter. No, it doesn’t matter anymore.

He’s so damn dead! It doesn’t matter anymore.

rrw 11-o8-14