by Brian Fuchs
Icons crumble, gasping for desperate breaths.
The poets have been usurped by melancholy memoirists,
aching to have original lives.
Every story seems to be told, despite repetition
offering nothing new to literature, to life.
I keep sweeping up remnants of fallen giants –
Thoreau, Dickinson, Whitman, O’Hara;
I even find Baum and Steinbeck and Spyri in the wreckage –
I collect the bits I can in a beautiful vessel where they remain safe.
Nobody seems to be searching for the treasures,
the once proud glory of the masters of Word fades into irrelevance.
Picking through the pieces still brings me joy
even if I’ve no one to share them with;
I wish I were as beautiful whole as they are in shards.
Posted on 02/18/2009
Copyright © 2020 Brian Fuchs
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 02/18/09 at 02:47 PM|
That's a really sharp opening line, man. And it just keeps getting better here. Welcome.
|Posted by A. Paige White on 02/18/09 at 02:53 PM|
Welcome to Pathetic!
|Posted by Charlie Morgan on 02/18/09 at 03:00 PM|
...brian, we are the [new] thoreau, etc...just of a different age[read: the way it's done now!]...we must replace them in our own enimitagit way...but i too "like/respect" the ones mentioned and not mentioned...a jillion! the piece is full of 'stuff' that can be seen by writers...good pen here, brian.
|Posted by George Hoerner on 02/18/09 at 05:55 PM|
Welcome Brian, and great first write to start your tenure with us.
|Posted by Maria Massarella on 04/01/11 at 12:46 AM|
So you collect the treasured bits in a beautiful vessel? Nice to find it anchored in POTD waters. Congratulations!