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Several Hours after the Death of a Salesman Literati polish their wares into villanelles - Nails disregarded for the sake of blood and rhyme. How the world turns; how the world whirls. At war, at breakfast, at attention: some, one, Even the black dog pulled from the lineup At the last moment, a bad neuron blamed. I visit a grave. There is no one home. The calls go unanswered. The dogs bark. They run through fields after themselves. When we are gone they will feel well. More than well. Now it is time for poetry. That weird word world – Exhausting. It was time to go. And thus, he went. As they all do. As we all must. No more leash. No more collar. No - a beginning, not an end. In Rome they seek another. The dog must come home with a bone. All the gods are betting on the dogs. They knew, too. So do you. How little time for you to act. And so they vote; smoke signals The ebbing tide, the moonless night; And so little's right in the wierd little world. That knocking at the door again - They keep ignoring the signs Keep pushing, knocking, scratching at the door. It never ends. Beautiful. Intangible as a star. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Helen C DOWNEY On Date: 2005-05-04 08:08:27
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.68000
Thomas,
Excellent imagery! Great flow of words that make you think beneath the surface of things.
One of my favorite lines: 'I visit a grave. There is no one home.' I would answer to this, Yes there is but they aren't talking! The dogs know they are there, it drives them crazy.
The other favorite line is: 'The ebbing tide, the moonless night;And so little's right in the wierd little world.' Well poets are dark in their way of thinking. Such a fitting line.
The last stanza is superb! It really doesn't end does it!
Thanks for sharing your masterpiece!
Helen