Poets that Blew Time full of Sand

Poets that Blew Time full of Sand

You and I had too much love
To fill things our voices spoke of early
Sayings: with lovely voice
In such a hard world
You and I suffered too much

Too proud to be wise
Of what we had overcome
We may not speak of it

Unable to reconcile reality with what we lived
Ask us no further word
We may not speak of them
They touched us too early and nearly
The strange myths our souls took on

To survive or to embellish that survival
These talks of old disguises we tell ourselves
The masks and narratives our souls built

To endure the star-span of our smile
And be a ballad-maker in hard times
Old singers we become half-forgotten
Half-forgetful we had no melody
Only the pang of the wind-rune at our heart

Our heart that old poets painted color-blind
The wizardry of strange sadness undiagnosed
We who ponder silence

In extinguished verse
Laments lonely from the beginning
Hope spent pioneered on the frontier guard
These gracious spirits on desolate fields
You and I had too much love

Sorrow like rain that is never spent
Feeling as white as bones and a thousand frosts
No longer men that take offense or have defense.

Of Post Modern Poetry

The poem of the mind begins
from imitation, the sufficient finding
of ourselves in others, of language in mind

the poetry of the heart begins
from adoration, the theater of possession
when all the scripts repeat

the scenes shift with insatiable actors
I slowly construct my new stage
the poem begins with delicate listening

a repetition of silence between each vowel
with an invisible audience that cares
the poem of the mind beings after modern poetry

ended with a souvenir of free-verse
when everyone became a sufficient poet
confessing to learn the speech of themselves

now I will never know exactly how to write myself
though it is fun to make metaphysics my business
and in sudden righteousness, pretend I’m more than a spark.

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