On every “I know” there’s a certain “you don’t”
But like lovers, they can't always meet
How they looked for each other in Amarcord
On the opposite sides of a street
Autumn has come, and the withered leaves fly
Falling away from the trees
I know it would be so, but can’t tell you why
Still I’m enchanted by this
When I was young, many autumns ago
To the know-it-all camp I belonged
Which helped me to realise things I do know
Are quite often the same that I don’t
Most complex of metaphors turn out plain
Trivialities flicker with depth
And this sunny day, can it speak of the rain?
As mere life speaks about death
The ghost of Villon could be grinning at me
Through the ages I noticed that smile
But what if I’m him for a while, cause I see
All my knowledge have proven futile
Now I’m 66 – too late to fix
But still a bit early to know
How would the choir sound in the mix
With the trumpet, in time when I go.
Categories:
villon, birthday, emotions, loneliness,
Form: Rhyme
I spent three hours
& forty-eight dollars
in a used bookstore
Dust filled the air as I
cracked the spines of a thirty
year old book wide open
Baby blue, sun-stained, hard cover
of Francois Villon, filled
with Greater and Lesser Tenements
and a secret. Tucked in yellow
pages of the long-neglected tome
was a postcard, sent to Scotland.
I have yet to read a piece
of prose, much less
a compelling poem that begins
with a hook half as charming
as this epistolary question—
“Have you been haunted by any Highland ghosts yet?”
I am unsure of the result,
I don’t know if any spirits
even roam the rolling Scottish hills
But without a doubt,
that humble author’s words
pleasantly haunt my own pen.
Categories:
villon, writing,
Form: Free verse
Words my mouth cannot find to speak
Flow from my pen with grace and ease.
Fated to the page, give me ink
To fight and battle with the quill.
With banners of beauty and truth
Facing, fearless, each hill I charge;
Parry and thrust with slashing words.
Never surrender to sorrow
Lest I might doubt and toss words off
As Doc McCrae in crumpled note
His aide saved so poppies still blow
Among the crosses row on row.
Infuse my pen with worthy points,
That endure like Frost and Villon;
Yet if my words can touch but one;
None for myself but only thee.
Categories:
villon, beauty, fear, poets, sorrow,
Form: Free verse
PRINCE OF SWEET SONGS
"Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire......" ( A Ballad of François Villon:Envoi-A.C. SWINBURNE)
The prince showed up in the terrace
Looked skyward a bird falling down a shooting star
The prince called his lyricist and a hangman
Categories:
villon, bird, song, sorrow, star,
Form: Haiku