Poetry Corner: I Didn’t Ask for Yesteryear

I didn’t ask for yesteryear, the objects of the past they seem so near
Perhaps when I look back they are simply further than they appear
What is it I am clutching close, is it the rope of a hangman’s’ noose

Not the indentured servant, nor cotton picking slave, but fattened goose
When you wait for the moon rising and night to hide the darkness inside
Nothing beyond bottomless contempt to light a spark in your eyes

Today, tomorrow they both flitter like fireflies beyond your reach
You cannot remember when Church emptied, not a soul to whom to preach
Can I flip a coin, roll the dice, do you have a pugilist’s last fighting chance

Is this the last hurrah of a washed up knight waiting for a fatal lance
A heroic tale or dreary drudgery, dank and mired in misery and woe
At any time did you stop to think the ghosts were not your lifelong foe

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2 Comments

    1. Wow: That is one heck of a comparison – thank you.
      Ginsberg: I can very much feel Neil Young’s Needle and the Damage done playing in my veins as I read it, something very close, like an old friend in that first verse, and distant in the second.

      Like

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