The Eyes of Yester
(A glance at Neruda’s “The Poet”)
Ridding on the Winnipeg
Sails full of blister and wet wind
Crying of dying souls- the seagulls chant
And I can’t sing for them, again.
Death has come upon the wind,
Crept into my dried mouth and rigged
From me my dreams and poems.
I no longer play the flowering games
No longer open petals in search of scent
Or dare spare the sunlit days for crave.
The herding of sentient souls has left me
Instead I tow with the loss of care,
Sculling away from the torn ramparts of man.
The torn sails whipping at the worn, wet mast-
The ghostly strips of canvas on which
My dreams had lusted, my beliefs burned hot.
Ridding like a man engulfed in madness I scull
To the shore with distant trails
Falling to the waves towards distant mark-
A man, a poet now lost in lore.
Daily spotlighted pieces from members of our forum through the month of April
2 posts • Page 1 of 1
- Posts: 10814
- Joined: August 19th, 2013, 9:04 pm
- Location: South Florida, U.S.A.
Marvelous job that speaks to the wanderlust, and the lost thing perhaps, that we can become Jovel. Magnificent extended metaphor on the sea that beats on every homeward shore. Cheers my friend! Veer and tack - Dan