Writing - Poetry

    The Living Dead

    Sitting in a clean, well-lighted place
    the works of ages in my face
    that never left a word to waste
    or spoiled their work in fevered haste.

    As I sit here on the floor
    amid shelves of poetry and lore
    I'd quote the raven evermore
    to get one foot inside the door.

    I want some words so appropo,
    for those I look to Edgar Poe,
    or maybe even you, Thoreau,
    to show me everything you know.

    And maybe you can show me, Keats,
    the verse the hungry public eats
    that makes lone hearts forget their beats
    and rivets lovers to their seats.

    Above all I must ask the Bard
    how he wrote things time can not discard,
    his wisdom I will swear to guard
    til the last book is burned and poem charred.

    It would hurt you all to see the measure
    some people take to act as censor
    which only helps to make them denser
    and the rest of us a little tenser.

    But perhaps the censors have a point
    our world some writers never joined
    reusing letters they've purloined
    ingenious they themselves annoint.

    So I look to you, the living dead,
    to pour your souls into my head
    or through my pencil lead instead
    to tell about the paths I tread.

    This poem was partly inspired by a defunct bookstore whose name is buried in the first verse.

    Copyright Doug Brook. All rights reserved.