All these heroes and demigods of
romantic ages now passed—they turn
to sad and bitter old men, saddled
with the knowledge that they once
somehow did these things that are
now dusty and immortalized, they
did those things, but can do them no
longer, for whatever quickened their
flesh, their minds, the beating of their
hearts in those days has been washed
away and lost forever, turning them
normal, depriving them of that wonder
that infected us all so well.
If we are bereft, if no new and mighty
piper sings at the gates to these lesser
dawns, if the bygone and its riches now
spent and squandered still ache within us,
we lesser creatures unheralded, think once
on those whose flesh once contained
the greater essence of the universal
mind, for he's a sadder animal altogether,
places hollowed out inside for that which
is fleeting, that which must fly with
some night and leave only the ephemeral
detritus that genius casts off in its wake.
A Haibun The sound of the hawk’s talons as they click against the cement floor is sharp and crisp. The raptor moves carefully, head duc...
We have been dreaming in unison but those dreams have fallen into disrepair, eaten away by the persistent rust of the many days here...
This ringing silence this house, once filled a place of voices now gone silent, a place that once echoed with the laughter of the...
Note: I taught a poetry class at Fyrecon this afternoon, and we did a few challenge poems during the participation segment of the class. Th...