An old, fading poet comments on his obsolescence and irrelevancy...
CONCERNING DEAD SOLDIERS
Consider the sadness of the dead
when Gods, that final truth supply
as boon for lives unfairly shed
in service to persuasive lie.
Do they envy the fallen few
embalmed with poison of the truth
partook while sat in chapel pew
or sniffed wile in their voting booth?
Do they impatient, count the days
until they meet again the liar
who justified his war and preys
on young to stoke in Ares pyre?
Do they despise their coffin's flag
or covet the colors of their foe
and wonder if dead men should brag
or now, more calm, their bold outgrow?
Or wasted do they silent sleep, REASONS FOR RHYME
mute promise of the young that died
for empty glory purchased cheap
and charged to chauvinistic pride?
For each fresh new thought, exists the right word,
each listener taught that each little turd
by being has wrought a crap loving bird.
That well chosen word, to last for all time,
most often is stirred by nuance sublime
with import inferred in flexible rhyme.
Each word should be chewed, not gobbled intact
its meaning reviewed, so you can extract.
when structure's unglued, each relevant fact.
Don't lazily waste each rhymed line you hear,
with suspicions placed on meaning unclear,
with acrid distaste, word chosen sincere.
A DEATH IN VENICE,
Prostrate Casanova glumly eyed
his impudent sentry, now aflame,
standing erect and purpled with pride,
or was it blushing from dark shame
that branded his too fickle friend?
Maybe just pressure of accrued
juices of sour grapes poised to send
residue from toasts un-brewed?
Or possibly, that nether member,
only now, alert and awake, would choose
to dance round the May Pole in November.
Slumbering through calls to arms. We lose
the esteem of just one fair flower
in vast gardens. Those blooms ignored
while open and fulgent, soon sour
or turn brown, and wear their discord,
that freshest of new buds will see.
Casanova eyed his standing spear,
with vile contempt. "They will doubt me,
expecting the passion of a steer."
I too, now blush from cowardice
that powders my face with shame,
in fear that when I rise to piss,
you will deflate, hang limp and lame.
Gone again, my weak and cowardly friend
and amatory comrade? Why pose the tear
in your eye? You rested while sabers bend
I cried, embarrassed by my final affair
You are the same age as I.. How
can you wear out while I still feel
the young man's needs. Why now
when I most need love, does your steel
backbone turn to limp spaghetti?.
Grateful Ladies once tore apart their best
nightgowns to make bright confetti
to salute my lusty conquest."
The rest of Casanova died of shame
when his biographer turned wary
while passing years had doused his flame
and left his shaft too soft to bury.