writing in a pub

Forgotten poetry; better that way.
For the stuff of Gods and mead
need not be remembered, for rather
they alone be.

Malaprop,
the star tonight.
They speak louder and
louder, the time passing by.
For muteness I sing,
cottoned ears do not all.
Alone here I sit, tongue lost,
trying to remember forgotten lines.

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Riddance to fear

I prefer the acquaintance to
be forgotten; the task of your
name bleached away and blotted.

Riddance to fear,
befall nervous plight.
This child-like disposition
will remove itself tonight.

Prayers go unanswered,
but then again I never prayed.

Contemporary WB Yeats

Where are the current WB Yeats?
To which do they write?
Where are the muses, Maude
and daughter fair?

To those in America under new
orange-rule, the American huns
of an American age – where
are the geese flying when
everywhere is a grave?

I bought you ink;
I thought it prettier than flowers.