Passionate Echoes

One of the poet's eruptions, poems that just came to him so swiftly he is certain he didn't get it all...that some lies were lost in the transcription. According to him, these come at the damnedest times, sort of like labor.

Passionate Echoes

At the edge of the sedge, withered,
or up upon my Damoclesian ledge, weathered
whims and feathered and leathered wings
furl and curl and give themselves to surly
kindness unrevoked and unprovoked.
The charity of love. Abstract to the plainsong
people who hum and thrum and play chum
to the sharks parking in the slipstreams
to fill their gills with a spider's hunt,
laying in wait. Fate that plays each card
like a Tarot gambler, wands for cups.

And I hear your voice, a blistered whisper
in a cathedral cut into the face of the cliffs,
the face of my cliffs, ancient stone displaced
for your esteem, for the redemption you...
represented. At least in a case of mistaken identity.
The plenty horn, the sentry's scorn and
the fiddler's riddle, melodies played for purpose,
where the dread dead bled in a bed spread
before them like a croupier's domain,
where you can still hear my voice, if you listen.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.