I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Flat truths, uttered in the tone of a weather forecast Or the lunch specials Are difficult to digest They seem not to be food at all
By D. J. Reddall6 months ago in Poets
The dead understand How vice and folly play out They try to warn us
I don't know how you do that with the dark Teaching it to dance with the light you are Shaking their jeers from your hair with a bark
Hell's the queue for hell Waiting makes you eat time raw Rotten molasses
Soon, winter will make Every coy exhalation Cold enough to see
An origami spermatozoa Aimed at the pale solar understudy ovum Language its inarticulate cargo Buoyed by wild hope Consider its legible skin
I can remember Forgetting all sorts of things Never your laughter
By D. J. Reddall7 months ago in Poets
He sings in a universal language Of things our hearts have long known to be true Poverty, disease and time do ravage The body, but the spirit sees us through
That's all you asked That's all it took The light, the tea, the book, the nook And you, with no fresh project tasked Free as any living form with the kind of mind
Some may be trying To read January 6th As a beer hall putsch
Fresh apples with cheese Despite your best efforts, life I can still love them
Like me, these beasts serve and obey your will Unlike me, they cannot feel love for you Your adversaries, they will hunt and kill
