This Poem is Not About Drugs

          
          
piano faintly heard
a neighbor’s window cracked
the singer pulls in lonesome souls
baritone a campfire
          a croon
          a wail
winged serenade slips
through sateen curtains lifting
one lamp signals life
otherwise darkness
his voice a stutter
in breath
shake of tears
discernible discord
          

this singer
the Psalmist he must be
poised on the rim of the pit
hands curved around mouth
bellowing lamentation
letting down knotted sheets
the first and last responder
for the hot clay mud
crusts about the ankles
no song can save
          

lampshade, windowsill, piano filters in
dread enters silent as a needle
graceless fodder for the
hot coal walk
          
          
          
_______
(c) 2013

Published by Marie Marchand

Poetry for me has always been a seeking. Always. An effort to come closer to beauty, to explicate beauty, to behold it in words. I wish to formalize beauty, to give it a title and empower it to go forth into the world. I want to give it shape and lend it the capacity for remembrance. Poetry captures essence. Without essence, there is nothing worth saving. John Keats and William Wordsworth are my favorite poets. My absolute favorite poem to read aloud is Wordsworth's Lines, otherwise referred to as Tintern Abbey. And it must be read aloud at least annually for uplift of the soul. I have shared my poetry through various means including handmade chapbooks, readings, and publication. All the poetry posted on this site is written and copyrighted by me. This collection represents about half of my poetry.