I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Watching the glass drain you, cold and empty Makes the impish paradox of whiskey So clear, as thirst and wrinkles multiply
By D. J. Reddall7 months ago in Poets
We either betray Or perish before we can Keep those knuckles white
Each of these odd voices sings about time Past, present and future supply their themes The first, a historian, eschews rhyme
Behold, the prophet Of profit, which we must love More than anyone
He will claim all of Us, tormentors and those who Suffer torment, soon
I remember the serious eloquence of hanging up The receiver, attached by a curling umbilicus of plastic To a phone, with a rotary dial
Why are these awkward Mediocre dinners so Long and expensive?
So much joy is lost Punishing the present for Versions of the past
I do not understand the salty speech Of the roiling, storm punctuated sea The crowd of gossamer clouds I beseech To solve the riddle of the sky for me
It is easy to resent the critic Who tastes and judges but seldom prepares Attached to a specific aesthetic Pointing out that what you love needs repairs
By D. J. Reddall8 months ago in Poets
All of us are strange We ought to seek that strangeness That best suits our own
Summer has thawed your quaint anxieties Puritanical shyness melts quickly Ancient are some carnal realities Touched by water and light, who is sickly?
