Timothy Ray Poet Free verse

We Poets Are Waiting For the Moonset

we poets are waiting for the moonset 
sitting on my balcony, evolutions shamans
now wandering the beach
we are solving every social ill
while walking Blake's path of excess
to some palace of wisdom
this sojourn has but one worry
the hour the liquor store closes
less the worry here, shamans open doors
money, lycanthropy meandering the beach
a ramada where we wake the proprietor
who finds such occurrences propitious 
vending beer, most cultures' insanity is sacrosanct 
the moon is waning into the ocean
to Bach's Toccata and Fugue
we are singing Eddie Arnold's cattle call
while the other horizon eructs
red-orange warnings poets love to ignore
evanescent crescendos
write something every day, i am not that bored
the sleep never begun is over
quart bottles cover the table
our proprietor lies in the Land of Nod
poets of Laputa, self-serving pataphysicians
the bench is strewn with the problems of Gulliver
La Senora arrives, shift changes, orders breakfast
and this proceeds until siesta time
the repairing of every social ill
retiring into respective hammocks
we are philosophers, possess our epigrams
no siesta, no fiesta, tomorrow i swear
a new and improved version
the beach is safe now
for white bucks scribbling in the sand
while our feet are beyond and supine
covered with flies, killing us
did not the Beats do this

   San Blas   91   The Patient Stones

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Ann Cantu May 22, 2023 at 2:10 PM You crack me up. Tim, you aren’t ready for the elephants’, nor the poets’, boneyard just yet. I didn’t mean it quite like that. I love you, your gray matter circuitry, and neurotransmitter firing processes.

Ann Cantu May 22, 2023 at 11:18 AM Your poetic voice has changed little, Tim, even after 30 plus years. Themes and subjects change, not your literary personality, which is good. That you’ve nevertheless made major changes in your life is also a good thing, and inevitable. Regardless of era, I love your verse. Timothy Ray May 22, 2023 at 11:52 AM ahhh Ann thou dost honor the old poet....limping out line by line into the place where old poets go...the Elephants Graveyard....An elephants' graveyard is a place where, according to legend, older elephants instinctively direct themselves when they reach a certain age. According to this legend, these elephants would then die there alone, far from the group. Sperm whales do the same