A POET’S PLAY
Ode To A Good Man Lost — Journeyman’s Sketches — A Poem To Spring Forthcoming; Man Alone.
Few lives are easily Forsaken or Forgotten as the ones succumb to the Total Grief of Life — so Few Story-tellers would dare conceive of such a person, and Fewer still would read His Tragic Tale
To the wrecks and puncture of a Good Man, lost:
Come see me, come about, and come and fear me;
A pitching in of a wanderer fool, to a life forsaken to unrest and despair
Until death does the daring part, dart.
The ones who do; do so for good reasons — to the passing pugs of mine.
Jack by spades, as he was before the devil came by his lot,
Rueing of his loving dotty, he was master shallow,
Stolen by a cheapening lot, and losing all.
By the flurry by the Murry.
And no more, thereon did he clasp the soft embrace
Of his lover’s skin, for he too, was diminished brim.
Thirty ’twas his age, an age of great excitement, now lost;
I’m no worthy scribe or loyal good man, nay to wallow, for the ice is brawn To say I’m no good man, but that be my lot — I heard he decry —
After the worth of my life, has come and become all but lost.
Whittled down without the repose of gentleness; I am lost.
Things become it, yielding naught after a good time separated from
The moment it happened and to the recalling of it.
This will be no good Winter.
There is only one way left for me — why pretend?
Abide by me; ever nearer to god was I.
So he pleads —
She departed too soon, and the crumpled matches of living remain;
That is the cost of my ghastly avarice in the marrow, oh!
It is all that I can see — I, the Seer may murmur:
The youth came up ever more sanitized to
The meaningless vacuum of their words,
Beguiled by the stealing tricks
Of a temptation in shrouds.
Why a further mile anymore?; anyhow — once the songs used to direct me
To my life and the waypoints that skirted the beckoning way,
Now it is so limited, no sign, only the consternation of aloneness.
Banter up the shields, as I take my gait, as the man alone.
Walking through the glades and hilly snows, ewe to hither, broom to last.
Han’t I have known my way to luster, as the boy clambering on the stones
Of old and yore, to expanses far and below — beholding fewer things now.
Han’t I ever have known — and known it, I shall remain,
Till my dying day.
COME ALONG WITH THE DOCTOR’S NEWSLETTER
©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms
DO SHARE ADORATION FOR THE GLORIOUS ARTS-O-MAGAZINE:
WHO ARE MY READERS?
The CURATION — THE FINE RABBLE’S PUBLICATION:
A WINTER’S JOY — TALES TO THE WARM-HEARTED IN THE FRIGID SEASON — MORNING PAPERS:
As ever — we go, Dear Reader.
