The Poet’s Solitude


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Solitude whispers a deep and silent story
From the shadowy depths of the heart’s abyss
Where the pitiful quest for either fame or glory
Withers upon the lips like a poisoned kiss

From the shadowy depths of the heart’s abyss
Poet and his quill spin their twisted verse
Words whose understanding and mark are missed
Whose meaning is lost, ne’er to be conversed

Poet and his quill spin their twisted verse
Word trail bleeds upon an empty page
The song of the muse like a dying star burst
Showering phrases full of grief and rage

Word trail bleeds upon an empty page
Passions quenched before a smoldering fire
Poem now dances upon an hollow stage
Then the poet tosses it upon the funeral pyre

We Shall Remember: Ode to a Dying Poet


moon words

Your night has fallen;
the brilliant light
of the new moon
filtering through the
broken mass of clouds,
a brilliant ray reflecting
upon your tongue-kissed works.
Your verse remains standing,
redeeming the world from darkness:
they seem to move and
we are filled with awe.

Your words were mountains;
iron-like masses thrown heavily
against the somber sky –
and as the dark blue deepens
into purple and purple-black
we reflect upon your poems,
which were gurgling streams
of naked visceral truth
cutting through our consciousness.

One never thinks of velvet
when the light is cold and thin;
when snow lies deep
and the intense light dazzles the eye.
But your lines were velvet in their
silver light and inky blackness
and we shall remember.