ObituaryI have been known to fall, Scraping knees, As friends a foes alike don't wait by my side. A life written in forcing fuller can't compare to enough Such that when I leave,Obituary
And people talk as people do, Who thought they cared and possibly knew, but didn't. Who can talk of ice on paper? Where nothing aches for nothing else A moment, and never again. Who can go on loving forever? Only go about what you do And then leave.
ArthurAs Art spreads his paint thick, like a palette knife of butter, Cursing the crumbs in the painting, A broken bird takes to the sky Its arthritic wings moaning by the window. "These wings are too gnarled to turn pages in books And too bent to hold, tightly, a glass of cold water."Arthur
Bending low, the frayed beak kisses the water Swirling frantically as if churning butter, Then retraces the bindings of loved books Sat un-aged on a bookcase under a painting Of an equally un-aged man working by a window. Those wings, once young, now pained, jerk through the sky.
Th
H.M.S. Writing DeskA flustered ship, The Rook, sails through the rain. A pen aboard, full sail and moored, she stays Her course through trope and rhyme again in vain. The same route cut, so swift, for many days. To "Jesus!" "Mary!" "Joseph!" crewmen pray As Captain swears and kicks the crates about. "Why ask a rhyme one cannot solve," he says, "Damn'd scurvy quest will have our hair fall out." But lo! A bold winged Muse shows them the route. With gentle wind she smoothes their blockage sea Whose drop would drink them further into drought. With woeful words the Captain's last decree: &H.M.S. Writing Desk
