Tag Archives: original poetry

22 April

Within the window panes
I spelt the name
The name of near ones
Dear
And the fog of breath rained
Away the lines of forced fate
And I, alone with reason errant
dwelt, accepted the form of
Shadows that blighted this
Moment of late.

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21 April

Looming signs of the travel of time.
Forget-me-nots fare not well
when life for both is not.

Day-dreaming clouds –
a sunken sign –
wood-frame chips seen
behind glasséd eyes.

Travelling seconds,
tick seen but not heard.
Etchings of age
but in this moment
the sounds, unheard.

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.