Wednesday, April 17, 2013


No captain steers the ship that we’re aboard;
We’ve floated past the now forgotten beach,
And hipsters mock where once the lion roared,
And stupid teachers kill whom they should teach.
I need an ogre in my soul to keep
The mindless hordes from cutting out
My heart to feed it to the dogs that leap.
I need an ogre in my soul to doubt.
Beneath the surface swims the waiting shark.
The ocean everywhere – which way to row?
The water leaks in, soon will sink the barque,
And Yeats’s centre gave up long ago.
In five-twenty-nine AD did they know
The lamps that lit the world were burning low?

1 comment:

Lynne said...

Thank you, and don't despair -- ogres don't write poetry and reality is the final arbiter.