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Newtown, Ct An old man with a sprig of lilac in the land with the dark lengthening, The night come with its flecks of flame, daybreak a distant memory, The lids of the houses closed, the artificial lights extinguished, The old man with his silvered beard meeting the deer in the pasture, The makings of men retiring into the dreams of the men who made them, who use them, who celebrate them, The old man noting their absence, and the late ones absent, The old man with his answer to, “where”? The old man with his dismissal of, “when”? He brings back with him a scent of the orient. He has scaled to the bright star, He has chaunted the thrush’s song into the drum of the darkness. His feet step where the feet shuffled. He moves over the fresh earth now hardened by night. He bows to the owl. He lays his sprig. He said he might be here to see us, and now we see him. The old man waves his hand at our mouth’s motion, moving into the dawn with his secret, Leaving a hard land begging for what’s soft in his beard, begging for the cover of snow.
Read by me - http://soundcloud.com/msscheffer/ghost
This Poem was Critiqued By: James C. Horak On Date: 2012-12-30 10:14:45
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Quiet remorse is indeed the most sustaining kind. Would we shout out the darkness, the current histrionic theatrics of a movie set is all too mindful. Your sprig (instead of wreath,) passing of landscape with father figure/Santa Claus/Christ "ghost" has the subtlety of lasting effect. Bounding with a crowded use of imagery (can there be such a thing?) you honor sincerity with such illusion. And leave the mental picture of a tombstone instead transient tears lost in the wind. JCH
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