The Old Undead of Poets
And thus spake true, the old undead of poets long forgot
As the grass they stood upon withered and the trees nearby did rot
For surely they had never ever thought
Nor in this life had ever sought
The substance of less passion
For clearly was not their fashion
And this indeed was what left them freed
As the world about turned slowly to withered weed.
Only the Rabbit Knows
There’s a place where I go
That no one knows exists
A place so private and hidden
So tucked away from everything
So removed from the world
That even a mouse hunting cheese cannot find it
Where I am all alone, just me and my thoughts
And with no one else, no one at all.
There’s a stone floor and empty pictures on the wall
A fireplace that burns without a trace of smoke or flame
To identify its private special space
To the world, so no one knows its place
And it’s where I can sit all alone
And yet be with you, and them, and they, and it
And you’ll never know where I am
You’ll never sense that I am there
Because the place is so very secret and hidden
And it is where I go, have gone, and will go
Where I go to be alone
When others are in the room
Where I am not afraid
Where the bed is unmade
But no one sleeps in it
Where I can cry in the night, and in the day
And you’ll never know, nor see a tear
You’ll never hear the scream
Or see the bodies lying on the floor
That are all me lying there
All different ages with no pictures taken
None to hang upon the wall
The fucking wall with empty frames there
For me to simply sit and stare at
But you’ll never know
And neither will they, or them, or it
Nor the hungry mouse hunting with its nose
Because it’s a secret place
Where even a starving mouse seeking a meal can’t find
The entrance within, but — if one did, — if it did
I would welcome it And happily feed it a piece of cheese.
THOUGHTS OF A POET IN THE RAIN 
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