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poems
by Philip F De Pinto
to which frail kin
will fall the assignment
the pleasure or pain to cart
to bury the treasure trove of poems
presently housed in shoeboxes
which are themselves housed in closets in crawl spaces
or whatever other orifices avail themselves
for storage
post having said it all
or absolutely nothing at all
post the fact you are no longer present
and accounted for
to avail yourself to words
which of your frail kin
will be given the chore
of lugging this fantasy world
down three flights of stairs
to bury or burn in whatever orifices
avail themselves for such burning
that frail kin might reap more space for themselves
to be frail in
in that dead apartment of yours
and when you are alas pronounced deceased to the world and
to words and et al
when you are interred in some non undulating orifice
that avails itself for internment
to which of these vermin
will fall the pleasure or pain
of carting off the remainder
of words left unsaid in your head
which you kept from frail kin and the world
and et al
that vermin might reap more space for themselves
to be vermin in
in this dead new apartment of yours
02/13/2013 Posted on 02/13/2013
Copyright © 2024 Philip F De Pinto
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 02/13/13 at 04:50 PM Thought provoking poetry, Phil. I've sometimes wondered that about myself when I head for that great poetry reading in the sky. |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 02/14/13 at 12:08 AM Hopefully it may not be someone as frail as you believe. It may be someone with all of the resilence of the author of this poem. And it may just be that if that person stops to read some of these poems a life may well be changed forever. That someone may just find out things, important things, about someone he only knew half of. |
| Posted by Elizabeth Shaw on 03/06/13 at 09:26 PM I admit I'm a ratpack, am happy to be that two headed worm squirming in delight through your poetry love. That should you or your poems vacate from here, for a day or a week to where ever, I will still have your Bonaire bonbons to feed my soul its abc's, sailing with your poems teach - is no frail thing ... your poetkin. |
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