Poem Yesterday, Poem Today

Hushed

Silence.

The sound of the needle

inches above the phonograph,

the record stopped.

The clash of snow falling

in a moonlit forest on a winter’s night.

The song of a sultry voice

after the pianist has left the lounge,

and the janitor long since brushed away 

the last dust from the shoes of the evening’s dancers.

The quiet only a blind man knows

when no one else is close enough to touch

and all else is stillness.

 

The Author Is Dead

 

The death of the author was regrettable,

but inevitable. It happened quickly,

his life punctuated quite literally.

His fingers left the keyboard thoughtlessly

as carefree as they ever had.

The final keystroke sealed his fate,

a single fingertip, a half-filthy key

that has never seen a lock.

And yet, as sure as any that turned 

to keep the monsters in, or out

it trapped him, closed the way forever

to whatever intentions he had meant

to put into the words he typed.

It is certain they were good and

it is likely the road lead where such things 

usually do.

 

The funeral was beautiful

millions came, bought and sold,

each reader brought his or her own voice

colored by his or her own experienced.

Some read within the lines.

Some read so far out 

the work was hardly recognizable.

The epitaph read,

"New York Times best seller."

 

And the author, while hardly Lazarus,

waited a few days until the aftermath

had settled into the dust of time,

then stood, shoved his hands into his pockets

and strode on down the road less traveled by

toward the next little death,

the next gravestone, the next laurel, the next trophy

to set on his bookshelf, tucked between

a pair of angelic bookends

that at second glance,

may have been gargoyles.