Hello father Poetry
These kids are always insisting
Their words are incendiary
"His father is nonexisting."
Mother speaks your name
She sings your praise
Tells me you're the god of flame
Which has left my heart agaze.
So I come to ask, father
For some proof of our bloodline
I don't want to bother
I just need something, a sign.
"Hello little one, 'tis true
I will grant you validation
One that I can't undo
Let this be proof of our relation."
"O' father how giddy my viens
A cure to this disparage
Can I take the reins?
Let me steer the carriage."
"Not even Zeus can control
This golden chariot drawn by steeds.
Only the dark horizon I can patrol
But one promise that I can't break was agreed.
Take care now and heed this warning.
Take a firm grip and don't let the reins slip
You are the bringer of morning
Sailing the horizon like a cosmic ship."
"Thank you father, this is all I will ask.
This will cauterize those words so forlorn
And bring sunshine for all to bask
Now watch me with this gold I adorn."
So off I went with sunshine in tow
O' how this sunshine was a'glow
Look at the burning horizon how the fire river did flow
The horses bucked, a grip loosed a fate my father did know.
Nothing I could do but dive down
Setting fire to Africa's lush vegetation
Scorching the lands turning green to brown
A lightning bolt struck, for I caused this ruination.
Now I sleep among the wine dark sea
Epitaph that reads:
"Here Phaethon lies who in the sun-god's chariot fared.
And though greatly he failed, more greatly he dared."
Sometime around vespers or matins, still dreaming or about to—
swimming spaceless beyond the stretch where vision is blindness
where photons tumble like Phaethon from his chariot afire
Where time beats that archetypal
echo of rhymed nothingness
pulsing through ALL verse
Except to those returning soul-side
grooving to the hush between the beats—
the authors of such co-labours as these
Vespers, evening prayers. Matins, morning prayers, morning birdsong.
Phaëthon [fey-uh-thuh n, -thon] In Greek Mythology Phaëthon is the son of Helios, the sun deity. Phaëthon borrowed the chariot of the sun and drove it too close to the earth where Zeus killed him with a thunderbolt to save the world.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
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