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John Birkbeck Poem
Love leaks away
into a bitter rivulet
of burnt passion,
and you're gone.
Red mist lifts
from the barren,
spent landscape
and I'm still here.
You left me in
the debris of
my ruined city,
and flew away.
You'll rend yet another
unknown horizon,
to yet another shipwreck,
as yet unknown.
My sour bulk stirs
in the tepid morning
and I make ready
for further day.
Had only you left, laughing,
my dull sorrow would burn
into refreshing rage,
righteous and pure.
Copyright © John Birkbeck | Year Posted 2005
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John Birkbeck Poem
. . . or maybe
the esotericism of
whatever
passes for
academic
discourse
in these later
days of no
Latin no Greek
no rollick in
the original
tongues of bards
who in facing
the Moors had
strummed of
delayed lust
for ladies
a-waiting
in their foggy
homelands
pining away
from unassailable
baconies far up
on cold stone
battlements
yet holding
the dream
aloft .
Copyright © John Birkbeck | Year Posted 2005
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Details |
John Birkbeck Poem
Reversing the order
of philosophy
one could say in truth
"With wisdom comes age"
but not the sanctioning
until time
picking up speed
puts disguises
on faces of pilgrims
along for the ride.
This kind of education
is like being a tourist
except more is left
behind than what
is brought back.
Sometimes what
you see in front
of you might be
what once was a dream
that came true
ready or not.
Music is travel
through time, too--
for how could
old Mozart still be
frolicking here?
Copyright © John Birkbeck | Year Posted 2005
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