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Bob Beaton Poem
Heavy, golden days of August calling,
Wisper to my first age: a garth so sweet,
A blasted orchard with petals falling
to Earth corrupt, where dust and love may meet.
I stop there, in an endless summer's day,
Safe in Demeter's fruitless garden.
But I must remain in this siren's hell,
Shut up in Eden by Keats' lie.
This opiate past is Morgana's spell,
So etherised in a hollow I die,
Deceived and mad a Merlin base,
The idiot bastard of a shameless race.
Copyright © Bob Beaton | Year Posted 2018
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Bob Beaton Poem
No beliefs except the unworthy,
A thuggish frame without a mind
Growing reeds with his father's seeds,
No thoughts except the unkind.
Idle Prince on wicker Olympus,
Stroll down and inherit your Earth.
The risen dead may come and see
The King of human stock,
While he slinks stinging,
To another room,
A Cinna.
Copyright © Bob Beaton | Year Posted 2018
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Bob Beaton Poem
If that strange patience could regenerate
In stark twilight, to an alien race,
What common Lord could the disloyal have?
No deadly forfeit, no dumb child-king,
No sudden chill of some sharp glory
Or the three-fold terror of love.
That deviant passion would fall hard
And cold, on a people
Like rain-beaten stones;
A son still-born to bestial kin
Who, too dead to demand a miracle,
Would not have it again.
Copyright © Bob Beaton | Year Posted 2018
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