Gruber-Clark picked this one. It also got play in an NC newspaper once.
EL III
Moody gray barely
makes contrast
against white-bright sun.
On the quad
you might miss a bench,
obelisk,
or palmetto on fog filled
days that, though rarely lasting
past noon, mark time in
brains both atrophied by hearts.
You stayed. Roanoke
fit you, gave
more than it took, meant
people cared,
your complete life, a
full swing at
everything: video, art,
music, religion, howling
on moon walks, peering
over the edge, under the
star, at lit
ants snaking through seven-hill
valley. Where
have all the protests
gone, what inspires enough?
Catapult
your talent past meds sir Ed.
You lend a
hand, guide when you can,
nurse those unrepaired
psyches around you and have
yet to get back what
you deserve.
Doesn’t a local ballpoint come
right out and
scream for you to write
again? You write it, I’ll push
it. Heron
Two is in
Russia’s library
now; if we keep trying they
may yet let us bash
down the door
for a flurry of public,
attended
readings, an award
from this or that high
council on
the state of
poesy? Or to die
trying, that’s
what I say. I have a
son, so there’s
a chance these words will
live on a while, but
you sir, need
to crank it up again, and
soon. If not
for personal gain,
to help those in pain.
