The rock that cannot be explained sits in the same place,
Not far from the barbed fence and sings like a meadowlark.
This day the wind is harsh and the grass bends,
No yellow feathers spot the field's bare spaces.

Years ago I stood in song and looked towards trees,
Moved from branch to branch with the flying squirrels.
Even now, at my feet, the pale purple clustered flowers,
Whose name I never knew, are bright as if I were young.

My years have been spent as if time were money and had
No meaning in itself. The purchases did not end loneliness,
Or accumulate souvenirs. Now the path back to the house
Is gone, and the narrow space between spiderwebs.

Has been opened to empty space where one can walk
Without having their shoulders caressed by leaves,
Or their shoes caked with dark, wet oak leaves.
The clearing is like the life I lived as a petty Socrates.


   
 

Duane Locke, Ph. D. in Renaissance literature, unemployed, lives in an old, two-story, decaying house in the sunny Tampa slums. It is a colorful neighborhood because the police have pasted yellow and orange posters on each telephone pole and street sign advertising that the neighborhood is a high drug emporium. Also there are the bright colored expensive cars that have been abandoned on the street after being stolen or abandoned. But property is protected because the burglars are afraid to come in on account of the muggers.

Duane has had over 2,000 poems in over 500 print magazines published, including APR, Nation, Literary Quarterly, Poet Lore, Black Moon, and Bitter Oleander. He has also published fourteen books of poems, the latest entitled WATCHING WISTERIA. To order, visit http://www.vidapublishing.com or call 1-800-869-7553.

Have comments you'd like to send the author? Please e-mail Duane at: duanelocke@netzero.net or fill out the form below: