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Heart’s in Exile

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I am told it is in the voice

The phone call

I’ve been waiting for

Telling me I should not

Stop

Telling the story

The voice is one

I know

Full

With expectation

Unwilling to agree

I have no business

At the bar

(Step back please)

Not enough time

To drink

The words

Of the ages

It’s all been

Done (In Exile)

And the voice,

Breathy & hollow,

Now silenced

Until more

Weight is assigned

THE LONGING

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If  *“poetry keeps longing alive”

Then the art form will live forever

There are those who will always

Long for something more:

Than the tent in the desert

The humble chapel in the mountains

The manger in the cold

The dread of the day

Beyond the dawn

I am one

Of those

Longing for the

Sweet, semi-comatose

Of the forbidden dream

Where warmth

Prohibits reality

Of a world

Run amok, chaotic

Where the gifts of

The wise are dashed

Upon the altars of madness

Turned away

From a manger empty

Of hope

I long

For something

More

*Robert Bly

Writing the Obits

I can put it off no longer

No coffee mug large enough

To sip the deed

To be done

It must be drunk

Whole, full-faced

Eye-to-eye, the names

The departed

Journeys

Cut short?

Maybe not.

Maybe

Multiple lives lived

In one

With all the answers

Leaving the living

Clueless with grief

And rose-colored

Verse:

Cleansing

Death’s decay

Gilding with a

Heart’s bouquet

Thinking Poetry – Living Prose

Martyrs of the 20th century – honored in granite and poetry

 Living in prose

Concerned with the text of life

As it is written

On the cracked mirrors of bathrooms,

And subway walls,

In the urine of little boys spilling

Their small words in the dirt

The text expands with age

Multi-syllabic disasters and concerns

Death leaving those to mourn in

Loneliness and debt

Where’s the poetry for non-poets?

Is there enough

Life in verse to go around?

Haughty and regal verse rising

Above the mire in art and sophistication

Where’s the verse in death, poverty, and spirits

Haunted and struck by the closed hand of the Father?

The sun and verdant forests

To possess

To scorch and hide the verseless

With nothing but a hideous prose

To read on tragic walls

Life –

As it is written