Poetry
When the source is dead
Like a dry river bed
Rocks exposed instead of a current dirty flow
The vein seized and not gripped by the ebb
Tied tightly like a black velvet bow.
The photographic negatives will tumble off the industrial table,
And into the light
A cast beam erasing a moment of plight.
The remaining worlds and drawings will be a good narrative of a man - an artists hard life
So others can endure less hurt,
A slice without a knife,
A layered cake,
Left frozen in the freezer to devour with reason.
Feast on each second even if the windable wristwatch
Stops.
…And holds you in a space locked with
Moments.
The books will be keepsakes and
The collages will fall apart and some will try to preserve a small piece of you
In a folder or a frame
Explain the increased value
A valuable soul.
Markers of stacked stones will
Keep the traveller on a path that is a safer
One -
Less impediments to traverse
When life’s rehearsal is in
reverse.
The music plays through the hedges
And the view of where the sound is blocked by
How time is an impasse
We certainly don’t outlast
everything
Some art is immortal
And some is fodder
Some is waste piled in heaps
And some art
Should have burned at the start.
One candle slowly draws to a close
And the wax and wick diminishes
The poet leaves one poem unfinished
With a title that says:
The earthen child and the pine cone
And the stone on a soul that
was a home.
Francis A willey
Oct 25th 2022