Sunday, October 31, 2010

Errant son

I feel guilty each time
my shadow darkens her stone.
Ever the errant son, my visits
to her grave come once a year -
Memorial Day, penitentially, flowers
in hand. However, the preacher
said her soul is no longer there,
so I've adopted that excuse.
Mom, I know you're not supposed
to be there, but if you are,
forgive me, again. Your son.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Most excellent chord

It's probably always been there, this
transcendent connection, a strand
to the ethereal, a most excellent
poetic chord smothered by youth
and denied each time it rears its
beautiful head, left to writhe, waiting
the day when age and character
finally fashion the person into a poet.
What use has youth for deeper emotion
other than lust? What use the forming
of feelings into higher expressions,
so often ridiculed by the young?
Comes the day, however, when beauty
and sensitivity prevail and poetry flips
on the switch to enlightenment.