Blood Upon The Moon

Poetry is far behind me now:
I have lost the gift of music,
the memory-hidden silences.

That place where once I lived, in
glory, is occupied: by
cruel forces of the invasion.

The armies of the ignorant
twitch, and kneel:
they leave their blood upon the moon.


So alright you know more than me,
I concede to your competitive
vanities and the telescope of ambition

Where attitude substitutes for
actual accomplishment by
the surrogates of the soul and sad deeds

In the committees of abandonment,
authorities I do not sanction
governing what occurs between me and thee.


As if money wasn’t every measure,
for what cannot be missed
in the absences of real treasure

No more a garden nor oasis,
no safe heart or places traded
for what is lost within the traces

That do not feel like grace or the swift
awareness beyond the judges awaiting
verdicts with which they already agree again.

©Dean Baker

©All Rights Reserved

my books on Amazon



NEW BOOKS: Shadow Boxing The Infinite, Phantoms Of The Northern Forests, The New Poetry Hotel


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