Index





Silly stuff




We are such silly, minute stuff,

clinging to this spinning lump of clay.

My notes are writ, yet not enough

to comfort me.




The pains of each new day

are shared. But who will see

the unrecorded myths my muse

no longer yields to liquid song,

nor rhyme?




Enfeebled now, I somehow lose

that urgency, my very time,

that sense of who I am, where I belong,

I am so singularly remote.

That none cares




nor comprehends my stiff decline,

misinterpreting my stares

they know not if I sink, or float,

this chafes my soul. For love I pine;

just intuitive love




to fan the still warm coals

which heat the last few stanzas of my air.

When present push succumbs to final shove

and I am gone, then who is it unrolls

the tuneful legacy of me? My disrepair

the abstract coo of turtledove.




March 2015