Lines

Lines

People who liked rap and rock
Really do like rap and rock
And simply will not hear a bar of Strauss.
Moreover they're the very ones
For whom the little junkie runs
The dirty tattoo parlor in his house.

Asleep In Denny's

You only want love,

A brother, a friend.

Underneath the wing

Of darkness like a death,

Cool and warm, a shadow

I'm lying in your arms.

Could this be just a metaphor?

A poem without rhymes.

 

Pending Death

My days of writing poesy

Are at an end. Now what?

I figured when I finished

I would die.

I am finished.

But I am not dead.

I think I read that Junkets wished

To write for several years -

Enough to make him famous -

And then stop.

Death stopped him sooner.

I am 68.

Had I died when Keats did

I would have written nothing.

When he is has gone away,

That's when I'll die.

 

Syd

I offered Syd a copy of my poems

When she leaves.

She's going in October.

I could tell she

Didn't really want them.

Syd is not a critic, she's a person,

A very nice one,

One that I would reach.

Another soul who doesn't like my songs.

Fifty years – I've been writing verses,

And I failed.

Another fan of Keats.

But Sondheim made it.

Sondheim is a clown

Who showed the world

He can't write tunes.

Although he wins awards for writing songs.

If you like my poems, I have some collections on Amazon (paperback and Kindle).  Go to Joseph Hart Poetry.  Thanks.