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Eric Dent Poem
Yea, victors jest. They out-sped the cast of hunger’s cave.
Their cantors, ragged kept, did reach an faithful end.
They in the din o’ drizzle laugh, licking cool drams from stone,
as had they crawled o’er hot pools bled to prod ‘n prattle.
And who’d, when quenched, a saunter risk simply to gaze at greener gray,
who if by haze be fraught, need merely fathom sky?
Lest be displeasured he to whom above could clouds be prone to tattle,
go but shy requests, voiced dryly into azure.
For so the victims passed, betrayed by breeze and snitch of brush,
though Him on High, with just demand, they had beseeched.
Each life a tale brought to lie, defaced, in scattered, muddy tomes.
Torn is the silver lace, which once linked bone to bone.
Yet risen, too, had wanton sighs, whereof his Mightiest to ask,
whilst the ground, as should it care, received the rasps.
For what doth emptiness command and what the unseen sovereign willeth
are left matters later glibly to be bantered.
Know oft’ the hunt finds one befuddled, spelled by guiles of a wraith.
No taunt of tail waves, no wake of twig gives sway.
With head to hang, his rack he gathers in a push to halt
to stand bequeathed a chide of birds and chipmunk heckles.
There, the timber rout delays with naught but mettle left to drain,
as the mars of rock and thistle mark the wait.
Chafe of paw, tongue feathered fowl, the foiled dashes stream to words,
whereto the blood, in ruddy tones, by droplets trickles.
Copyright © Eric Dent | Year Posted 2013
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Eric Dent Poem
Toddlers teeter on the hollowed trunks and sport with juts of ice.
'Cross boulder bridges, flouting rapids, hop the agile blond and beige.
Yet in close chase, for or found, and on uneven ground, they’ll slip.
Clots in black and rose bespatter tans and whites.
Though clouds may cope the flights of cubs and fawns in torrents spirit laden,
steps shan’t be erased, where o’er plight’s edge they’re furrowed.
Would least the cliff lay lad to nestle upon drifts of pedals fallow
or as cradled by green swaths of summer blades.
For if to hope, the whelp when bade need but renounce a bed of clover,
might a father’s beckon stern retrieve the slain.
But scolds can echo no reprieve where o’er forever’s precipice
the yearling brown has left the seasons scarlet stained.
Though with the day’s advance, a glance would chance the fact all tracks do fade,
in the havens gray, in every trace, we dawdle.
It’s the cleft that blanched a mother’s face. Bereft, her tears are gained.
And blood ‘s been shed till never, like the rains.
Copyright © Eric Dent | Year Posted 2013
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Eric Dent Poem
Should I, mere a rabbit of sand, shiny hair,
sport a shock of fur mired in clay,
they from gofer mounds, propped on to peer, would sound warning
through the sun glades and sleep grotto shades.
“A pall fellow lights whereupon we here graze.
See ye lithely to him yield path.
He in bone pastel smocks with such likeness to bare
plodeth sloughs dank, decay’s fell morass.”
“This chap’s marks are slurred, kindred ‘s smudged,” they’ll say,
“in a mud that is not of our warren.
He looks sullied by drear earthen labyrinths far ‘way,
perhaps fox hole, cat hovel, or den of wolves’ coven.”
For when foul skies do strike, marring trees with their curses,
rains fall to douse scintillate branches.
A pungency hovers where a torrid sludge cools.
Its paste casts forbidden clan hues.
Now the wolf craves not easily his like or lean.
He is wary of ghouls in his ranks.
“Gaunt swagger, I see,” he’ll think,
“This one leave be, who with me, shares the gore and the grisly.”
For in drab sheens to drape, shall the countenance daunt.
Browns besmirched will, in ashes, urge, “Yay,
it is he colored wolf.” In airs Lupus, I’ll steep,
strutting meekness purged, brave in cloak gray.
Copyright © Eric Dent | Year Posted 2019
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Eric Dent Poem
In a winter chorus, autumn’s rouge and sallow shed.
Their shuffle settles loamy dregs of timber lords.
As they await the hurling puff to haply brush the forest floor,
of what to grace their lot, they’ve lack. No praise up-whirls.
All we born, as such, descend, as severed from an high accord.
Then swept to shadowed crags, the dreams of day retire.
With hardened creeds to surly shelter us beneath their stale lore,
the burly breeze to heft comes seldom to inspire.
But note the gust that swaggers brazing licks. Proud trunks in swaths it leaves.
The tongue to pummel trees, the tunnel breath, rolls through us.
The nostril flume imbibes this ghost, the same who, wrapped in thunder, looms.
There stirs incessantly the So and Hum, the chant by which we move.
Now when the clearings and the coasts show nowhere crowd nor cross of deer,
all the same, the hunt, there seems, a trail ‘s taking.
And one’s wile, self-avowed, is from that faithless rut to veer.
Stray the path, would he, which he the wolf is breaking.
Yet hear! The faintest ting and slightest twitch received command.
To cosmic tenor, resound seasons with their forms.
The chief of words holds still the ages in a solitary day.
The less are strung to sentence nature to her norms.
Transfixed whilst in the lunar gaze, a deathlike swoon stars wield.
Sonic relevance will seize in dins and swirls.
As planes celestial pivot lives by this unheard, odd eloquence,
there must a whisper be, recanting etheric grooves.
For contentment covets smiles from the jowls of astral frill,
when the way has winter whited to no end.
Will not the stellar figures, sought and viewed, resolve the brisk enthrall?
They must revolve with summer’s patterns to portend.
But with the cold, the heaven’s clearest churn in crystals.
The night is smeared in depths, occult by frigid flow.
Yet the utterance to shift the morning twilight’s brightest stars
lies silence hedged with the chime of flakes of snow.
Copyright © Eric Dent | Year Posted 2019
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