Tag Archives: original poetry

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.