The Poets Are Dead
On days I read…
O dread
The poets are dead!
A taste of bitter
A tatterdemalion squalor
A thread
that dangles
in black death
in the abyss
The art is lost
in those times
The craft
on a cliff
Words swish
then spit
without mystical scope
Spring forth
O poet
Prepare thyself for thy muse
the amusement of thy readers
If thy words
hang upon
thy precipice
let it be stupendous
spectacular
Let them peer
perch
leap
glide with whimsical wings
Fly, poet, fly
Nose dive into the sea
Capture the depths
of eternity
Put a pretty bow on it
or a ghostly hue. Abscond
into the spider’s closet
fiddle on the roof
hang on baby
until you're foolproof
ne’er perfect
leave room for edits.
So the albatross
went diving
but it is the fisherman
that is thriving
up, up, up he goes
into the blue nose
his line
divining
reeling in silver and gold.
Treasures
to share
No dread!
The poets live! Live it up to the end!
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