They do not die,
these poets,
they are absorbed,
slowly by the year,
feeding the tongue’s root,
weighing the worth of hearts,
swinging from page to page,
a rustle of birdsong in the morning,
a glimmer of twilit truth,
always gold,
not tarnished,
never fading.
Gone
In days
Muttering of war.
The postures
Of the scrubbed,
Dead eyed ones,
Once more decrying
Alternatives to destruction.
Their squealing slavering
Shall be spittle
In the breeze
On sea cliffs
Where your
Insistent gentle roar
Will bring wheels
Of gulls
And bees to drift
On warming slopes,
The sound of waves,
God breathing
As He too,
Rolls those lines
To and fro.
Once carved
And carried,
A pomander
Of sweet eyed
Clarity, a sword,
A vinegar, to cut
The fickle fat
Of lazy habit.
A new recognition,
A reconstruction
Of heaven
Where we stand.
Perfect
As it is,
Sweet sufferer,
But not of…
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Spoondeep 