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towards the end of the trail
sat a small gathering of old poets
a gypsy photo gallery with color
whispering out of tune hymns
with golden thoughts without voice
gazing at the open oak coffin
no doubt a drunken dead poet lies
covered with his plastic membrane
celebrating his awkward funeral feast
with voiceless words with thoughts
looking towards emptiness without distress
and the hidden grace that lies ahead
the dead poet mourns his unwritten poems
conjuring his magical disappearing act
with one limb in the grave
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8 comments:
Wayne stop going to those gypsy camps and drinking that bathtub gin, it's making a poet out of you. "Looking towards emptiness without distress and the hidden grace that lies ahead", I shudder at the thought of traveling the Coffin Trail (I'm trying to stay off the path). Good read, I did like it's terminus.
Regards,
Donald
"whispering out of tune hymns
with golden thoughts without voice", Wayne, those words resonate with me. Excellent read.
Cheers,
Pamela
very cool...i enjoy the way you write...i guess when i pass i will have words unwritten...that scares me a bit honestly...
a gypsy photo gallery with color
singing out of tune hymns....nice
cute little grandchild you have there too...thanks for stopping in today...
All the great poets seem to end dead drunk and dieing young. Excellent poem I liked your words very much.
Melanie
Wayne, love the idea of mourning unwritten poems much.
that middle stanza has some amazing imagery
this is a dirge and a battle cry. That's a powerful combonation that you've managed to pull off without dramatics and only truth.
viva la
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