Sunday, July 21, 2013

Summer Party

In the hot New England woods
We come to confess
Our need.
Ourselves alone,
Workday false face
No longer
In our steed.

The humble friends
Who know
Our youthful
Before these our
Glorious ends.

Fortressed, trapped, well-wrapped
Among the
Bug bites
And the trees,
We make
While we conjure, sing and feed.

Rip away
The worry layers
And lay bare
The stuff of youth.
Soul fire lights
These summer nights
For warriors
To recoup.

Blighted Lights

Pattern array
For public display
Imagine my dismay
When what once was Avant guard
Is predictable for pay

Making bank on decades past
Somehow they’ve made it last
But the real poets are restless
And now the die is cast.