A Terza Rima

I met/ a man/ who just/ the o/ther day
declared/ he wrote/ his po/etry/ for me.
“But we/ have on/ly met…”/ I tried/ to say.

He si/lenced me/ and said/ he did/ agree,
yet still/ each poem/ he writes/ is sure/ly mine.
I asked/ him to/ explain/ that I/ might see.

Hands in pockets….

What of this state that we call death,
this coming of time you and I must
face it’s clear. We watch as others
young and old perish but could be
saved, my shame outweighs my fear
Why can’t we have a blind eye or turn
the other cheek, say, it’s only another
drought driven starving, no need for
us to speak.

Where are their leaders we cry slinking
away to the back of the crowd, it’s their
responsibility, we’ve done enough, and
my new X box is playing up for crying
out loud.

The morning wraps itself around you
with the terror of your skin,
your hands forgetting the way they
felt when you touched her in your dream,
you are humble in your agony and deeply
surrendered, for you have touched her
in your walking-away life, walking away like
the sky in nightfall.

x = stressed o= unstressed

I

Jeffery Dahmer killed his neighbour: flushed him (down the drain)
Ed Gein ate his mother (and) played in (her) dirty dresses
While Son of Sam with gun in hand was killing golden (retrievers)
Fisher went and ate some children: buried them in (the) barn

xo xo x o xo: x o (o o x)
x o x o xo (o) x o (o) xo xo
xo x o x o x o x o xo xo (oxx)
xo x o x o xo: xo x o (o) x

II