The Last Poet

From the very ends of my fingertips,
My fingerprints as old as rings in the oaks
Of the seven southern counties lost,
Or the sincere lines 
Not just merely-read 
By a calcified Babylonian 
Chiromancer, but upheld
As something splendid,
As delicate as dreams in a turning moth,
I will channel and convey
The ferocious glass-through burning
Compelling a demiurgic resolution
To my resistible demise,
With dazzling apogees we shall rise
From this derelict and too-long,
Much too-long debasing nadir
Scrubbed clear of demagoguery,
And we shall thrive, for love,
For all that is still worth celebrating,
Then like Emily, and Edward,
And all the ancient poets,
Just as suddenly disappear.

Pallbearer’s Song

There is a light transcending,
I broached its dappled fall,
And though I neared the ending
Such light left me in thrall.

I carried him on my shoulders,
Flowers spelt my name,
Relatives somewhat older
Gave all hell to blame.

I lowered myself by an altar,
Hymnals in a hand,
And though they sang with gusto,
Silent was the land.

However low I travelled,
Misguided wrongs recalled,
Sunbeams on a glady gravel
Seek to be my pall.