ANOTHER MONTH, ANOTHER POEM (OR TWO)

GONE ARE THE DAYS

Switch on the stars.
Hang up the moon.
Take down the sun
From late afternoon.

Call it a day.
Put out the light.
Turn off sky blue.
Let in black night.

Imagine love one
Last time
as before …
Darkness and dreamers
Aren’t one anymore.

EASY WRITER

Would that poets not grow old …
for the older we become,
such wisdom as we may attain
serves increasingly to torment us
with its – and our – limitations.
How much simpler to be
oblivious of how little we know –
to eat, drink and be nary
a gray hair past the moment of youth,
creating with never a thought that
poetry is no match for the blank
spaces between our words.

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