poems get long
nobody’s fault but the poet's
who sings lyrics
with a half full pen for company
a loaded gun for support
gazing into a future no one else
may see
Russian roulette, the only game in town --
as words flow with percussion ease
tapped out while clock ticks beyond
its moments
on long road of living with ideas
searching for lost phrases
poet thinks are new
like they are his or hers alone
only in twinkling of their arrival
do they belong to the poet --
borrowed from bards long passed
a past smothered in dust
shining seconds gone like
end of light in lightning
darkness descends
another empty chamber
hammer falls on nothing
but an empty sound
of imperative
to keep writing.
Comments
Thank you, Shirley.
Thank you, Shirley.
Always wonderful to hear from you.
Love ya,
Victor
Yes ...
almost sorry to hear the hammer click,
the pen is pushed along ... the only game in town.
We can only define it our way, it has all happened
before, been written about, talked about, lived;
and here it is, our turn.
fine piece here Victor
Thank you, moonman,
Thank you, moonman,
Much appreciated.
Ciao,
Victor
poems
So many subjects have been written about in the past by poets ( some whose talent level we can never hope to attain) it's a wonder any of us have the nerve to write at all for fear of repeating a line or phrase already used in much better context.......yet still we write. Excellent write Vic, my favorite verse would be 5th..........scribbler
Scribbler,
Scribbler,
I like that fifth line as well. It just seemed to fit to whole lyric.
Thank you very much,
Victor
Hello, vic
I not sure the forth stanza is needed. It's a little murky and it doesn't move the primary thematic action along..also, you speak of a pen in the second stanza and here of tapping/ pecussion ( like typing)
otherwise, it's GREAT! I like how you do poetry!
Al,
Al,
Thank you for the read and comments. Fourth stanza stays as written -- nothing but metaphor after all.
Ciao,
Victor
Victor
Nothing new under the sun, real true.
I wonder what happens when the gun clicks on that final chamber.
heehee.
Love your imagery here, and the metaphors.
VC, I blame the Muse
Mcuh of the responsibility is in the poet's writing hand... but then I just remembered the Muse can be a persistent nagger, there she goes tapping on my shoulder again... :-)