BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

SS (St Eve) answers this poem from BusterStronghart, Wednesday, August 23, 2006, below:

In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.

The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.

A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.

Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,

A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,

His lonely, sinking craft.

mek

Before the convex mirror the image magnifies
Pores, craters, defects bigsize.

No knowledge of the sweet,
The kind. No forgiveness for the sane.
No points for moderation.

Whole life is no insurance plan
but made of error, laugh and pain.

Exceptions there are few
but as a poet you can stand on the mighty riverbank
and scream the the verses of your closeted refrain.

ss (St Eve)

Editor's comment:

My father would be pleased--my mother would believe it.

mek