and post notes and photos about your poem like William Kekaula.
Listen to poem:
Another Saturday of middle men gathers, save one, be another weekend passes, mumbling about, till I spoke out, forgive me, this be the truth of it.
'Tis but a few words, that I lent to friends ears, a course set to change,
for heard they, of a raw web unspun, perchance 'tis innocence had a part of it.
Furthered loan lobes, of fate's mired pace, that weld's their chest so tight,
it held the breadth of them, a chance to swim in its currents of a tenuous life.
A friend astrayed, from our prearranged meets of jovial matter, 'tis cavorting,
leads to a quietude, a disturbing view of jaws, 'twas given a shot of novocaine.
Reveal I to them, of a sacred trust, known only to me, and now our friends,
as a harp strums an unsung tune, strands of arrows tender points, prepares.
A test on a piece of paper, whose strength enough to shred an unstable heart,
and bring a man of untold years, of the worth that remains--a small sum it be.
No tear was spared on a solid face, that offers free slides of it, to yon floor,
pooling whispers of ancient values that will spirit a hospital room's brief use.
Sounds of car doors, engine revs, as the voice of gps's unattainable reach,
of heartbeat's ascent,'tis be a final race, rally they must, for the one of them.
A room of jovialness spreads, cavorting returns to normalcy, dry eyes rounds,
yet I see the truth of it, for they drown in tear-filled dams of fortuitous eyelids, all.
*October of last year, its earlier half, my colonoscopy test result reveals one polyp, and during the interim of its results, our friend passes away. A day before the funeral, a prerecorded message states it was benign. All of us had ourselves checked out. I suppose, my words suffices a small tribute to his memory, yet, he's not being forgotten by his friends for the many Saturday's that has passed. *This is for you buddy.
Copyright © William Kekaula | Year Posted 2019