Extended Play

I lummox my way
through another Tuesday ---
cerulean, Cistercian.
I count the days
until James's book drops.


Eureka me some poetry,
you Pindar of the turnstiles.


My confessor?
She's a gospel
in running shoes.


Hildegard of Bingen:
a twelfth-century version
of Christie T, poet and rockstar.


Summer is more bane than boon
to my Celtic integument. It vexes me
quite. I hide from its stridency
amid the copious shade
of a million liberal trees.


Thomas the belly, redux:
his coffee, his rosary,
his antic compendium
of wacky preachments.
Flaneur among the friars,
this talkative Doctor Dandy.


All my sins and songs
have been catalogued:
duly dismal, systematic.
All my brittle virtues,
shelved for posterity.

Poetry by Uncle Meridian The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2024-05-22 at 09:08

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one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
I enjoy all of the sequence. I relate to the fifth personally.

"Summer is more bane than boon"

Summer's heat and adult sensibilities are reminders that summers are not what they were during childhood, the freedom it afforded, the sense of release; the way time seemed to expand, slowing down with the long days.

Thank you, as always, for your poetry.

alarian The PoetBay support member heart!
when I am so rambling and fighting in English to write what I don't dare to call it poetry anymore, you write in a stylish way, I think you could date it