Radios At Night by Lamont Palmer

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Radios At Night

Coming in on the back of the music
is the ancestral tear, the miniscule river.

This is where I sit, at the base of speakers
and memory, swelling the paneled room.

Inside the ashram of my feelings,
where it stands in a staid seclusion,

grows the place where we all cry, where we sleep
within the shaded, flattened rooms of sorrow.

Necromancer, beneath the grateful roof,
dwell and grieve to the motion of musicians.

Lamont Palmer

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Sue Ann Simar (12/24/2008 4:19:00 AM)
This poem is so above average. It gripes me that it has such a low undeserved rating.

Chandler McD. (11/28/2007 1:48:00 PM)
That Necromancer should have done something to help.

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Lamont Palmer (July 12th,1962 / Baltimore Maryland)