Aging Poet Poem by Smoky Hoss
Aging Poet
Come and see the old poet
Laying in his bed of ashes and dust,
His love in ruins
His mentality frozen by restless rust,
His hungry heart emptied of it's fertile blood
His souls melodic purpose nearly gone,
The mellifluous music now so silent
The end, of a once wonderful and powerful song.
What happened to this poet
With dread you may ask,
The ancient story ofcourse
The evils of age and wear, and so damned many things out there
Working away at his heart, fulfilling their wretched task.
When poets speak truth and beauty into this old world
Any breath may be their last,
For so many evil spirits will stalk them
With an endless passion to haunt, from the past.
Deep hearts risk
Becoming weary and tossed,
When singing lamantations
Of all that's lost.
Still this old poet wrote
For was his vocation so to do,
Even through the battles with doubt
He held on, ever true.
Words from his heart
He rended to give,
The conundrum being
It cost him his life, to fully live...
So look! Look deep
Here lays the old poet - in state
Having succumbed - like all the living shall
To mankinds unavoidable fate.
May all the aging poets forever
Rest in peace, and ever be blest,
For the words dug with pain from the depths of their souls
Are nothing less than the very best.
(for: Townes Van Zandt)
Poets are eternal and their poems are everlasting, but they, as the human, are succumbed by the evils of old age and weaknesses…a beautiful idea, Smoky..Congratulations…
Nice one Smokey. The old poet has a lifetime of memories to share. Reading the words of an old poet can be an education in life. Well done.
Piece of great elegance with rendition of words to utmost justice. Beautiful tribute that highlights the essence and intricacies of poets' art, well articulated and nicely penned with conviction. Dust to dust is a must but the poets' utterances shall live forever. Thanks for sharing and do remain blessed.
I have read this before and treasured it highly but like excellent writing it seems even richer than before. The sign of depth, my dear poet.
I admit it! ! ! Most of my words are NOT dug from the depths of my soul. I don't even think I HAVE a soul. Though some may come from my 'heart', more are probably from my 'funny bone' and from 'lower parts' of my body. ;) bri
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/16/2024 2:04:15 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Yes we DO expend our lives in living them, and it IS a conundrum. Truer words never spoken.