The first new poem of November. I plan to post more before the new year is upon us. Yes, I need to write much more in 2o16. Hope I can.
Unwanted Guest
unwilling to return to the asylum.
me out in my finest clothes, sleeping forever now
among the broken cups and cigar butts, the half
empty bottles of wine.
Somewhere a bell moans,
a crow caws, nothing moves.
their grandchildren chase each other, jumping
joyfully into the large pile of rotted leaves
that the groundskeepers just raked up.
the spoken word. Poetry is dead.
Unwanted Guest
Death
sucks the life away, decay lingers
like
an early frost, like that last party guest unwilling to return to the asylum.
Wrestling
with the black beads of her rosary,
mother
weeps for us. Too much fun has lain me out in my finest clothes, sleeping forever now
among the broken cups and cigar butts, the half
empty bottles of wine.
Drunken
testimonies
clinging
to the chapel walls. Somewhere a bell moans,
a crow caws, nothing moves.
At
noon the old soldiers line up along the gravel road.
Stone
markers standing tall, medals waving in air,their grandchildren chase each other, jumping
joyfully into the large pile of rotted leaves
that the groundskeepers just raked up.
There's
no pleasure, these days,
no
comfort in the written word, the spoken word. Poetry is dead.
It’s
lost its willingness to haunt.
Woodie
11-o4-15
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