Friday, December 16, 2005

Life is the Mother of Death

And Life is Beautiful

They’re closing
down the cemeteries;
no one is allowed to die.
What will poets do?
No more sentimental
fertilizer crying

artificial flowers
can’t be beautiful because
they never die.
Oh how the poets love to lie.
They venerate
the twist of syllable

or turn of mesmerizing
metaphor more
than reality itself.
It’s the power of the poet,
not the poem,
that matters most.

Forget the quantum
everlasting open rose;
for now it’s best
about the lyrical

~Son Rivers 2005

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