A short free-flow poem I wrote a long, long time ago:
Words beg their commission from a hidden king, whose graces they resent. Emissaries, soldiers, courtiers, troubadours, and priests, they are sent forth from his castle to bid the world take heed of him. For without their tireless march, the master would suffer alone in his windowless tower, dark, brooding, and voiceless. But without his strength, those flickering lights of mirrored meaning would themselves go dark.
My first visit to London, was during a holiday trip in 2007. Here’s how I memorialized it
The ancient matron grasps longingly for the sky, a crowd of bony fingers stretching upward, black threads tied to each one, laden with dangling bits of civilization renewed. Below, in her bowels, a gritty brown aroma, and clattering, grumbling, tin boxes scatter frantically along well-worn paths, long sullen with a heavy memory of countless other footfalls.
