An Acmeist Wordmonger, unspoken

(I speak not elegies,
nor mind the right and wrong)
Oh deist, mine own,
eternally in the sky.
They say your son is a devil,
shining in the moonlight,
his grimace a shimmer
and his laughter gone.

(The elegy crows through me,
riveted to the now)
The edge of the mirror,
pock-marked, studded with rust,
it hinges on the wall.
My visage is a blur,
who is this face in the pale?
His eyes are uncolored.

(Falling behind, moving away,
the elegy is on the run)
Oh heavens, you leave me pondering
on the seers and prophets who glance
in the sea, only to see the waves,
only to see the waves. The curls
are their prison, as the foam grows
and becomes death.

(The music fades, sentenced
to a life of servitude)
The density of my soul,
no, that’s not right, for I am acme,
a block of iron dumped into the sea,
my words are worth nothing, my
definition becomes like the vision
of a distant mountain, unknowable.

It’s hard being back in the saddle.
It will come soon, though. The old feeling,
the bump and sliding of the tongue.

The Avenues

Poetry has fled for a moment,
replaced by the grinding of gears
and a shiny new cover.

It has returned, though,
much to my surprise.

It is perhaps more common,
more heady, touched
with the necessitudes of a life
not yet lived.

To dream is divine, yet to live
is somewhat benign,
unless one walks bravely to the cliff
and faces the wind
with the water on their face.

I’ve seen the avenues
that proudly stand,
their trees and broad trunks
of my own pastime,
yet I hold the future is unwritten,
to be taken by my whim,
my hopes, and my fancy.