THOUGHTS OF A POET IN THE RAIN

Copyright 2012 , All rights reserved. Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain Productions, Alpaca Junction, Incorporated.

The autumn of this doomed discontent,

Gave birth to chill winter’s killing cold.

As had so lived the despot king,

Now came retribution swift.

His counsel swept away to quick pricks of death

Only he and a few supporters remained on the run

And run they did while the sun refused to give aid

The chill crept in through cracks and an uncapped vent,

As while rested the burden of soul in these quarters old.

A cloak for warmth, once a fox’s shiny gift,

Though not given without a fight to take,

Now hangs on skin covered bones all coated with fine ash

From the stove where burning wood becomes less

As is needed and used from the supply left by

Supporters on the fly, such as shall pass here this night and

Sense the stove in its plight, in earnestness, doth hunger nearby,

For the taste even of a small bit of coal

To keep the flame assembled within the grated, gaping-cavern

To allow breath to flow, while breath itself is most likely ill kept

Within its home which lay close by in a small alcove

Where it trapped heat to beat back the probing frost of air

Which continued ever as it sought entry

Feigning a need for a friendly shelter

As it hurried about its quest to deliver a freezing death

And asked casually about the lowering flames near the dying man

Who once was king now meekly in this hidden place

Lays peaceful in a dying bed and slumbers as a pauper.