Working that six string
a flame in the foundry
melting the metal
of the folks around the bar.
An English cockroach
or a German
(hard to tell accents
what with the cacophony
of titter, yammer, and gphaw)
crawled along my beloved’s
napkin — her napkin
on her lap — at our table.
A rapidly drained half-glass
and my wife is up and out.
Now I’ll never know
if the passionate lady
gave up her vow
or — remained a lady.
My first post with d’Verse Poet’s Pub in a long time. Tonight we’ve been challenged to wax ironic. Moi? Ironic? P’rhaps! https://dversepoets.com/2017/03/30/meeting-the-bar-irony/
Something there is in our culture that doesn’t like
a poet. Not for long, at least; we are quick to judge
her or him passé. They have left not one memorial
stone on another. Critics have banished into hiding
the once-vaunted bard, to please the yelping dogs.
But on this spring day I bring him near, and meet
with muse to read a line. And his thoughts borrow.
We have a massive gap to span between as we go.
I intone his spell to bring into balance his achievements,
my attempts, “Stay your critiques ‘til my back is turned!”
His poetry is lovely, dark and deep.
As a poet I grow I will his wintered, easy wind
and downy flake so closely keep.
The etching Frost so closely keep.
March 26 — the birthday of Robert Frost.