< Volume II: Issue 2 >
The Old Poets Home
by Robert King
The young have their metaphors too,
call us geezers, crones, and looney tunes,
say those old dude bards can’t remember
their best pick-up lines, can’t even
remember what they meant
to pick up.
Pardon my French, but au contraire.
Some of us can’t forget
the old words finely polished
by the light from our eyes.
True, we read now to elderly ghosts
disappearing one by one from their seats,
mumbling like me who often loses his place.
But we stand by what we’ve said.
We’ve paid for our free verse
and still want the muse for lover,
though some say inspiration
has left us for someone younger.
Our children politely call
our aged metaphors draft.
Or did they say daft?
All of us speak the language
of the old country. Even the modern
muse is not amused by our Latin
that bears children with foreign names.
Deaf to our lyrics, the young
cannot hear our babies crying.
The Old Poets Home
by Robert King
The young have their metaphors too,
call us geezers, crones, and looney tunes,
say those old dude bards can’t remember
their best pick-up lines, can’t even
remember what they meant
to pick up.
Pardon my French, but au contraire.
Some of us can’t forget
the old words finely polished
by the light from our eyes.
True, we read now to elderly ghosts
disappearing one by one from their seats,
mumbling like me who often loses his place.
But we stand by what we’ve said.
We’ve paid for our free verse
and still want the muse for lover,
though some say inspiration
has left us for someone younger.
Our children politely call
our aged metaphors draft.
Or did they say daft?
All of us speak the language
of the old country. Even the modern
muse is not amused by our Latin
that bears children with foreign names.
Deaf to our lyrics, the young
cannot hear our babies crying.
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