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Dead Poets

Poets find their words.
Some call it childbirth
but it is more a marriage.

The words are their best friends
as in class reunions.
They are lover
caressed softly
before arguments,
the words shouting back,

Sometimes the poet listens,
sometimes not.

You don’t find poets,
contrary to popular conception,
sitting in gardens
amidst the pansies and posies,
nor lolling in classrooms
discussing iambic pentameter.

No, they are usually found
hanging from a rafter
overturned chair, broken whiskey bottle,
or brains blown out by shotguns,
someone else cleaning up the mess,
or heads sleeping in kitchen ovens,
seeping gas, doors taped tight,
so the children aren’t troubled.

But, not to worry.
The words are faithful,
will follow them to the grave.
A preacher will prattle an elegy
and an old acquaintance will
write an ode.


Author: compasionatecritiques

Michael Eaton Bio Grew up in Littlefield TX and ran around with Waylon Jennings little brother. In high school lived and worked in a funeral home. First came to Austin in 1960 to attend UT. One year later enlisted in the Army. After serving came back to Austin and managed the Texas Theatre on the Drag. Was there when Whitman went on his killing spree from the Tower. Before completing school, decided to go to San Francisco State University. Moved there, and became a hippie living in a commune until graduation with a Masters in Creative Writing. Then came back to Austin and became partners in a stained glass studio, a business in which my eldest son is still involved in Houston. After two more children arrived, needed to make more money and became a new home salesman. Now retired. Recently have just completed conducting two poetry classes in assisted living centers for the elderly in Austin and Wimberley. I write poetry to stay sane in a sometimes insane world.

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