READING WHITMAN AT DUSK

 

READING WHITMAN AT DUSK

 

Our fevered mother earth,

so poorly loved and overworked,

on life support yet not quite

middle-aged.

 

When I was young, I read

you like a Whitman poem,

like a mountain in bloom

with redbud and dogwood,

like the everyday rivers

I waded and fished in.

 

Now the river’s fished out,

the mountain’s been stripped,

or removed. Pure matricide,

and unforgivable.

 

Going, going, gone.

 

Yet should I think I walk alone

in this tender, growing night,

find him under my boot-soles,

the good gray poet says.

 

I take a furtive peek. Alas,

looks like plain grass to me.

Thanks nonetheless for trying.

 

My nights are fine, dear poet.

I dream and walk in half-worlds

under the stars and black holes,

where thinking takes a breath.

 

But my days are all bad news,

awake to my times, astute

beyond hope or wishes.

 

 

1 Comment

  1. jamesralston@hotmail.com

    This is my second blog. Occasionally I’ll include a poem in progress, and this is one of those. JR

    Reply

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