Doom keeps getting
Closer and closer,
Nearing arrival,
And I have never been so glad
Someone can’t find the clit
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Although I would like to rehearse
With every day a little verse,
I’ve work to do, and it gets worse
If I should e’er neglect it.
I still will do my little part
To press ahead with ragged art,
Thus easing upset of my heart,
Which I’ve too oft neglected.
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Looking back on what I wrote before,
Reading aloud the words to those for whom I wrote them,
In whose honor and praise I lifted my pen
And in whose honor and praise I would do so again,
Seeing one smile not only at her own,
But also at that of the other–
An uplifting joy matched only by
The fall from the other not bothering to listen
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I sit surrounded by the books I’ve read–
Not all, of course, that have passed through my head,
Years taking many from me. They have led
Me down strange roads and long, my scholar’s self,
Those tomes and pamphlets ranging on each shelf
That all together make the little delph
Through which I, longing, search out wisdom’s ore.
Such as I find, I gather, put in store
For later smelting, shaping, thence to shore
Up bulwarks raised against the creeping doom
That seems yet more each day to o’erhead loom.
If I should die here, I’ve at least my tomb,
Already wrought as I’d have me surround
Between my final breath and final ground.
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The day has come.
I look around,
But what I seek
Cannot be found,
Not in the air
Or underground.
(I’d search the sea,
But I would drown.)
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Now, as my coffee swiftly drains away,
I ready me to face another day
Of work. These weeks, I have no time to play,
No time to smell those flowers I pass by,
Though they are fragrant as they grow up high
From roadsides. I still have not found out why
They burgeon there, but I don’t need to know
To find in them delight, nor they to grow
Demand I see or smell them. I must go
About those tasks for which I am yet paid,
Must not in them let myself be delayed;
Failure’s consequences are not stayed
Because I stayed and smelled to my delight
Those growing glories under mornings’ light.
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The day of false delight has passed us by,
And though some mark it, fewer still know why
On that day of all days it’s less awry
To turn towards cruel and often harmful pranks
Than other days. I ought to offer thanks
That on one day, we are not held as cranks
Who look askance on things put forth with glee,
Who see sharp smiles and think to from them flee.
That wind has now blown out, and from its lee
We must creep out and face a world unkind
That, thinking we have put out of our minds
Its japes, still waits to us unwary find.
I will my vigil keep, despite the day;
I will thus hope ill will not me waylay.
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Now April once again with showers sweet
Has risen from her bed, and poets meet
Her rising with their verses, seek to heat
The chilly ling’ring winter’s grasp away
From her soft flesh, hope with it they might play
Instead. She smiles, of course; who could gainsay
Her grace what others do to it attract?
She says no word to them, replies not back
To written pleas, not uncouth or with tact,
Nor yet to spoken words they belch aloud,
Guttural cacophonies of which they’re proud;
Children will act thus when they’re allowed,
And she is old, though she is born again
Today, the pilgrimage’s ever-friend.
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The coffee cup is empty
The carafe that supplied it yawning
And neither is the only thing that has gone dry
Dark fluid spent to some useful end
Not yet brought to an end
No matter how many times
I fill and brew and pour again
There is always call for more
Even when so much has passed that
I am left shaking
Hearing voices speak from lips not there
I have to find more of it to spill
Again
Not only from cup and carafe
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I very nearly forgot
I was supposed to do this
I am supposed to do this
And I am sorry to do it this way
But it’s better that I do it this way
Than that it not be done at all
As some schools of thought have it
Noting that
Some is better than none
Sometimes framed as
Shots not taken
Or somesuch thing
But then
There are the many
And many I have heard
Many whose voices I heed
Who urge that I
Do it right
Or not at all
So I have to wonder if
A shot from the hip is good enough
This time
As it has been before
And the evidence of having struck a target thus
Is greatly beloved
Or if it would have been better
To hold my fire this time
As I so rarely hold my tongue
There is this
Too:
What poem is
Ever
Good enough or
Done
?
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Elliott RWI 