High tide.
From underneath
The clear and turquoise waves
A hand emerges
Holding a full beer.
Tag Archive: poem
I once was a writer who wrote out of spite,
Converting the few free minutes
of long workweeks
into words.
That didn’t last.
I once was a writer who relied on a muse.
The words poured freely but rarely.
Rarer yet…
Then never.
And now I sit down
for a thousand
daily
words.
Time and again.
Habit and perseverance.
The moose was loose,
A daring ruse,
A prank that went too far.
“Man up and choose,
Me or the moose!”
She’d shouted from the car.
And look, perhaps it was the booze,
Or the December blues,
But I knew I had naught to lose
By letting the moose loose.
The dream in which we dwell is at an end.
The longest peace in pieces falls apart
As force and fire triumph over art,
And madness rolls through sky and sea and land.
Unclear and pointless who had acted first:
The box is open, genie on the loose.
We always knew, the day we made the fuse,
The last conclusion of our bloody thirst.
The laws that used to bind us are no more:
The loosening of all established rules.
Some consolation once the wreckage cools,
Grim anarchy that always follows war.
It’s closer now: the new and glowing world,
A spectacle for those who will remain
Through waves of light and sound and shock and pain,
And years of darkness in the sudden cold.
The dream in which we dwell is at an end.
Too late to fight, to plead, to hope, to flee.
And there, on the horizon, do you see
The wave of light enveloping the land?
Florida,
The frontier of fun,
Where the fluffiest clouds,
Like fairy tale refugees,
Fill up the sky.
Grigory Lukin.com 