The material solidity taken for granted
Begins to move like plasma
The earthquake rocks the old sensibility
For nothing conforms to old belief
Again, boundaries fluid move
In out around a narrow space of certainty
In which we figure we are defined.
And between the borders
That separate what is left of what we
Know of us
And the strange irreducibility
Of paradigms to truth
We float like specks of dust
Waiting to be discovered by what is within us
That we may discover it.
And still flowers in the garden bloom the same.
Each day in Tombstone as tourists watch
The OK Corral gunfight plays out
Reenactments staged by the locals
The Earps always prevail in this bout
Saunter down to the Bird Cage Theater
Now a museum in this Old West town
Actors aren’t needed to play roles
The original cast is still around
Sixteen gunfights caused 26 deaths
Poker players who were dealt bad hands
Tourists still hear the shuffling of cards
And music from the piano man
Gunshots, images captured on tape
Dancehall girls still perform on the stage
Scents of old ale cling to dusty walls
And card game losers express their rage
Doc Holliday and Clanton Brothers
Look on as Wyatt holds all the cards
Virgil, Morgan glare at the McLaurys
Lawmen and outlaws send their regards
Spirits may rise from nearby Boot Hill
To visit the Bird Cage for a while
Delighting modern-day visitors
With a taste of history, Tombstone-style
To learn more about the Bird Cage Theater hauntings and see photos, visit http://www.ghost-
trackers.org/birdcage.htm
Primeval campfire bards intone their tale
Of fairyland, where human beings dare not stray—
A nether-realm of water-sprite and fay,
Evoked by incantations and the banshee’s wail,
From out of ancient balladry, Man’s myths prevail,
As legends from a far-gone pagan day
Evolve, and make their immemorial way
Down centuries. Old ghosts, old magic, cannot fail.
They live as fiction on the printed page,
To thrill a reader on a winter’s night
In some Victorian book, shelved by the bed.
Such phantoms mock our glib, computer age,
Where even Science cannot point the light
To drive the cosmic specters from our head.
The old man lived in a cove
where the ocean meets the sand
every night as the sun went down
by the seaside he would stand,
and look out over the ocean
at the things that he might show
and look out over the waves
at the dreams he once did know,
some say he was abandoned
some say was left alone
some say he craved for freedom
so he wandered from his home,
the only things thats certain
is when the nights are born from days
you could find the old man staring
with the seaside in his gaze,
tis remembered around the town
as the day the ocean cried
tis the day it was announced
that the ocean man had died,
the only thing thats certain
is when the days turn into nights
you can still see the old man
with the ocean in his sights,
where the wind blows the waves
to the shore without a care
if you look hard you can see him
and if you blink he is'nt there...
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.