Notes About The Poem
From my recent series Mountainless Poetry (AKA Plain Poetry)
Dull Tea Sojourn
Wanting to get Away...
Needing to get Home.
Are they all dead?
Fantasticals, Fantasy, Phantasms?
Fantastic Rascals.
Masters. Hmmpphhh.
Tin-roofed.
Straw-sided.
Dirt-floored.
Mundane.
Arcane.
Insane?
(Them. Or, I?)
I’m on a meadow
lark.
I’m on a mountain
pass.
I’m at a crossroads;
one lone road stretched out ahead -
stretched out behind -
, if I care to look,
into and through each and every
Eternity.
The tea is thin.
The ember, black.
The robe unment.
The cane unsupporting.
The larder full...
of rot;
vouchsafed against the coming
nothing-more-coming.
The inkquill dry, the pages full.
The air silent and gifted me some
somberity.
The birds nest now in
as well as out.
The rains quiet and pool now in
as well as out.
The empty deepens now in
as well as in
me.
The Master, oh so great, is
Gone.
Now.
The Master, her formative ages forming formless, is
Gone.
Now.
The Master, let his name sweeten my lips, is
Gone.
Again.
Empty, Silent.
Voidhome.
The peak, a valley.
Songbirds sing.
Leaves rustle.
Breezes whisper.
Geese squonk.
Empty; perhaps though
never emptied.
Silent; perhaps though
never silenced.
The Master, the Indubitable Inscrutable, is
Gone.
and or maybe if perhaps could likely or somehow somewhat say
was was never was.
Is, still, somehow or of course,
Gone.
Echoes dwell.
Lessons linger.
Songbirds sing.
The tea is weak;
mine (nay, ours) to
sip.
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