Birthday Tree

Happy Birthday Granny! 

The Poem

From the writer's own typed collection

How About A Poem

Something of beauty
in its sounds,
in its images.

Profound
in its meanings,
in its insights.

Evocative
of deep feeling,
of soul-searching.

A touch of melancholy
for the melancholy man.

Earnest,
concerned,

AND FATALLY FLAWED.

Intent on telling the tales
of the saint who grassed
to the secret police
on his father's politics,

and the angel
in the bar of Heaven,
masturbating.

Word Game

The pure white sheet of unclothed thought
has, pencilled in its margins
in lexicographite,
those squiggles that are lexicognomens
of lexigognoscenti
who roget through the saurian lists,
more synonym than sinning,
arriving, where the fowler's usage leads,
at an abusage of partridges.

Untitled (second of four short poems)

Pity my silences,
they may be reticence.
Pity my reticences,
they may be the fruit
of my silenced tongue.
Pity the pool of tears
behind my eyes,
they were shed
for my lost words.

The Word

The word is the symbol,
imperfectly deciphered
by the intellect.
Its aptness and its force,
even its beauty, is
as much a matter of
association as exegesis.
Communication honed
on evolution's wheel
may ultimately make
the spoken word redundant.
I shiver for your cold,
you weep for my sorrow,
each bleeds for the other's wound,
and language has become
a rapport of sentient silence.