When it’s Too Late
Dawns, no longer fervent,
With the promise of day,
Lay punctured
At the fettered feet
Of a dead summer sun
That cannot rise.
“Love”, an early bird waits
Spreading its pallid wings
Waits to soar and sing
Waits,
Waits…
And falls.
The prancing deer, moans
Not even endeavoring
To un-hinge
Its stiff arthritic knees…
The elfish eel, eye-less
Sees no more.
To this ashen terrain
Of washed up jade
Color-bereaved blossoms
Night-loving lichens
Maggots…
Bring no light.
The seekers of day are dead.
Pray, let
The termites…
Live.
June 23, 2009.
The Last Song
While I hum, play a star strung song
On moon-beamed strings
Of an old guitar.
In our washed up chorus, let us
Liberate the long-imprisoned
Dove of dried-up love.
Then we might evanesce, swirling
Like perfect smoke rings
Into an inky night.
I shall hush my reproof, and you
Can save your unsaid words
In a treaty of silence.
And thenceforth, for all summer lives
Each quietly amble
On one's own winter pace
....
I, humming my verses,
You, singing your silence.
June 28th, 2009.
........
[I have willingly disappeared, for good
Into the silence of years of labour lost]
There is no retreat from this road
For on the hefty ride
Backwards of finished sentences -
Full stops intervene.
What would you spell out
To the protagonist in your book?
What hope will winged angels bring -
To a man sentenced
By a jury that will never sit again.
Wrongs and rights are immaterial
When being completely right
Makes you so so wrong
And being wrong fails to heal.
Think not, of relating
Any good, any bad
Of such stories in black
Such stories as ours
Without an end...
Bury those drafts deep
Beside all else unsaid and undone.
Let this chapter close
Like its subjects
On unfinished sentences
With big bold full stops...
July 12th, 2009.
