nakedemperor
Senior Member
Sonnet: A Guy We Used to Know Shot Himself
We walked together, all of the old guys
down a damp street, we stopped on the corner;
We stood in the rain in suits and loose ties.
He twisted a cap, one of the mourners,
and poured the whole forty onto the curb.
We stood there and watched with lit cigarettes.
Nobody said anything. Not a word.
We just watched the beer mix with our regrets,
And saw blurry faces peer through their windshields.
I wanted to yell at him, its not right;
I dont see him walking through Elysian Fields,
letting the yellow wheat brush his palms as he might.
I dont see him a-crossing the river.
I dont feel him at all, just a shiver.
Freeform: Epitaph
After passing under the abandoned bridge, I would take care with my strokes,
and conceal my eyes under the brim of my hat, for you.
I would take care that they might be delicate and deliberate
and the subtle ripples would be in harmony with the burdened willows
at the bank.
The hooked cod trailing alongside the old dugout seemed to swim,
cheating death by my humble approach and diligent strokes.
For you, I would approach, for you, I would cautiously lift my gaze
at a distance,
just peeking out from under my straw hat, like a child at church,
watching the other bowed heads warily during prayer.
There would be the Old Post bridge, eclipsing the already half-orb sun,
Where I would squint to discern the shimmering silhouettes,
from where I sat, rowing.
The village behind the willows but before the sinking hills
has not changed, ten-thousand lures and flies later, and I know
with sighing resignation,
that the old men hang over the iron rails of the bridge in the same way,
as when I, just a boy, would watch the fisherman row upstream
leaning courageously over the rail, with you.
We walked together, all of the old guys
down a damp street, we stopped on the corner;
We stood in the rain in suits and loose ties.
He twisted a cap, one of the mourners,
and poured the whole forty onto the curb.
We stood there and watched with lit cigarettes.
Nobody said anything. Not a word.
We just watched the beer mix with our regrets,
And saw blurry faces peer through their windshields.
I wanted to yell at him, its not right;
I dont see him walking through Elysian Fields,
letting the yellow wheat brush his palms as he might.
I dont see him a-crossing the river.
I dont feel him at all, just a shiver.
Freeform: Epitaph
After passing under the abandoned bridge, I would take care with my strokes,
and conceal my eyes under the brim of my hat, for you.
I would take care that they might be delicate and deliberate
and the subtle ripples would be in harmony with the burdened willows
at the bank.
The hooked cod trailing alongside the old dugout seemed to swim,
cheating death by my humble approach and diligent strokes.
For you, I would approach, for you, I would cautiously lift my gaze
at a distance,
just peeking out from under my straw hat, like a child at church,
watching the other bowed heads warily during prayer.
There would be the Old Post bridge, eclipsing the already half-orb sun,
Where I would squint to discern the shimmering silhouettes,
from where I sat, rowing.
The village behind the willows but before the sinking hills
has not changed, ten-thousand lures and flies later, and I know
with sighing resignation,
that the old men hang over the iron rails of the bridge in the same way,
as when I, just a boy, would watch the fisherman row upstream
leaning courageously over the rail, with you.
