Granville Holt Poems

Not the night call for his mate
Nor the full moon instinct howl
This wolf song sings forlorn fate
A lonesome breed on singular prowl
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Much as Mary, when first she heard the Saint,
When Columba's weary foot touched fair Iona
And kissed the sand, and breathed the air,
So thankful his journey across the sea did end,
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Take me to the city
Me, only me,
Love me,
Never leave me,
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The Red Flamingo is the poets dread,
Its flight tracked over a land long lost
And here and there dropped a feather red.
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And as you save the best till last, Millay,
First stroke the eight, so blood to flesh arise,
Though some sighs soothe and some soft lips soothsay,
Each rush brings hush to misty, glaze dove eyes
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For visions he will smoke the Deer horn pipe,
To calm her child she'll hum old lullaby,
A song of tears to teach of days gone by,
Of clans who Pow Wow dance as blossoms ripe.
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Some say good morning Vietnam, not me,
I never saw one December to June,
Everything smelled of rot and death was free,
Sleep came with night sweats under Sun or Moon.
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Please forgive me, so, not Shakespeare again!
I'd love to read a book but what's the point?
I want to live, love, laugh and cry and then
Pause, to take it in like a clairvoyant!
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I sat by her bedside, she was silent
In repose and I wished to hear her voice
Yet there I paused as one on mission sent
To find some way to speak soft words of choice,
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Poe could never leave well enough alone
And the wasteland of words can kill the soul
Just as Browning hid her love like a stone
Masquerading Shakespeare's whom the bells toll
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