RIMBAUD’S BLUES by James Goertel for your Tuesday Poetry feature reading pleasure.
There is nothing left of this day, but night.
A rabid dog bites a trusting child,
a dying deer
turns a lifeless eye to the wind, the road.
Too close to Heaven
is too far from
the sun that kissed her shoulders.
Blood runs its continuous clock
inside a heart
winding down unrequited and unseen.
Rain falls from the moon
the sober footsteps of fare-thee-well.
Memories become mercenaries
holding smiles captive
against their sottish, stumbling will.
Everything ends in sighs
leaving pale and perfect, hollow hunger.
Hands pulled from pockets
the sunset of men and women in love.
Matches struck to light the dusk
upon the fingerprints she left on his.
First star’s apparition overhead
without a wish upon it
when there is no longer a ghost of a chance.
Shadows climb trees to escape
the darkness descending
through late autumn leaves that have yet to fall.
Bitter cold, crescent-sent moonlight
cannot find the words to shine
inside the mouth of a drunken, spurned poet.
No prayer for a stricken, lovesick adolescent
cowering inside a swaying man
dancing a slow waltz all alone to Rimbaud’s blues.
The rabid dog turning tail
and running off
without fear, wild and incapable of remorse.
The dying deer in headlights
turning a blind eye
to pain and tamed by an ironic twist of fate.
There is nothing left of this night, but dawn.