Poems

Funny Old Men

Old men can be witty.

I hear then at it now

In the booth behind me.

It gives me hope somehow

That I am funny too

When I want to play

In my advancing state

Of imminent decay.

8-29-13

Strength

I haven't got a god

To help me through the storm.

People now called poets

See anathema in form.

I've only the encouragement

That frequently I find

In forgotten loving faces

Buried in my mind.

8-29-13

 

The Witch

She stood against the post,

Terrified and chaste,

A sign above her head,

A rope around her waist.

And lettered on the sign

Was “Heretic and Witch”.

In her mind she pushed away

These accusations which

Crushed her remnant consciousness

To little, like a stone.

She cried, “I am not evil!”
But she was alone.

8-29-13

 

Wearing

At 21 I found him,

Rapt, enchanted, once!

Enspelled among the brambles,

I became a dunce.

Junkets! Keats! My hero!

I read him all I could.

Now at 67

I wonder what was good.

8-29-13

 

Sleep

Sitting here in Denny's

In the gravity of sleep,

The ice is melting in my tea

(Raspberry). I'm dozing.

I about to sleep, by god!

I've got to get me home.

Though midnight is a sanctuary,

I require sleep.

8-29-13

 

Stranded

Stranded between Broadway

And the meanings of great poetry,

I'm probably incapable

Of either and of both.

The music of great poetry,

The cleverness of Broadway -

No one's writing either now.

The sewer's in the sea.

8-28-13

 

Were it not for poesy

Were it not for poesy

I would die insane,

Lying in a casket,

Sleeping in the rain.

Hear the ocean distant

Splash against the shore.

See the moon approach.

What is darkness for?

A little bit of madness -

A little bit of truth -

Age and death commit

The larceny of youth.

8-28-13