poetry in the classical style, in generally pleasant themes
Stack them all upon my head
as I down drowsy on this bed
do beg for eyes of light and day
instead of deep top deathlids sway
and sink in shades of pages grey;
all worlds within the waters weigh
a-tempting drifting, Jesus pray
my life come more than Jack no play;
please prop me up and help me stay
even, upright, night I may
enjoy the swash and ocean spray
yet keep the tide of books at bay.
If all is gift, no gain when dead,
a page into my dreams I’ll thread.
Our hope of course
lies
in getting more of the same:
the hit, no surprise
to our eyes gone lame
from a dark dopamise;
forty minutes go by
and lie bind gagged,
my hostage and I
a terrorist flagged
by lights in the sky.
Hide, hide, secure the sin,
waste the hours and cure the din
of conch resounding loud within
til dry acidic eyes sink thin.
Red are the nights
ere the dawn flees east,
blue frightful lights
and I the least
to set my hand right.
For ash crumbling tween
our white errant fingers
falls, clumps of the scene;
a mocker’s lap lingers
for all to be screened.
Hide, hide, secure the sin,
waste the hours and cure the din
of conch resounding loud within
til dry acidic eyes sink thin.
