Where have all the poets gone?
they wrote some words
then quietly moved on
into a grave of indifference
silence sleeping with a futile defence
caution thrown to the wind
where are the Keats’s?
the wherefore art thou Romeo’s shaken?
with a heart solid and breaking
into noble song
one swift arrow leaving its quiver wrong
bending sheets of rain in its path
Shakespeare nodding his head with a laugh
where did he go?
where did that missile take umbrage and slow
into less articulate death
a promise exalting in failure of breath
to sustain more lies
to add more craven pity to the cries
Wordsworth wantonly making herbs with his wife
sentences prone to the ambience of life
a putrid bowl
decaying fruit branding crystal glass with mould
where did the lines from the page
static nothing talking down happiness and rage
from high window ledge
poet floating through air
disappearing both foul and fair
now stale with reasoning
unsullied with seasoning
such is thy mysteries of poetry
he came, he wrote
he left a note
then they set him free.