Sunday, April 01, 2012

Poem Drafts


The abacus that is our brain
keeps count of pleasure, rest, and pain
with double entry, red and black,
to balance gain and what we lack;
yet reason is no string of beads
but calculator's thinking deeds.


The only poems Mallarmé,
that god-infested man,
ever brought to light of day
were laid out with a plan.
His ink he made to be jet black,
his page was white as cream;
he wrote no verse, just verse's lack,
and published it in dreams.


In truth, my dear, I do not see
that you have any claim on me,
or heart's insurance, or a word
that chains me down when it is heard;
but then I never was the kind
who tangled up with vines that bind
and strangle. Yet if you will find --
on some far quest in some far land
where Serengetti mountains stand
or by Brazilian rivercourse
or at the Nile's distant source --
my heart, then we will have a deal
that I will hold; and none will steal,
not time nor death nor Fortune's wheel,
my love, and it will stand and stay
till trumpet rings in Judgment Day.


  1. Brigitte12:02 PM

    Having read your poem drafts today, I am greatly pleased to tell you that my folder of favorite ones has now grown by three.  As always, my thanks for sharing them.  

  2. branemrys4:58 PM

    Thanks! These three did seem to work out pretty well.


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