once a hole

he is
a prisoner

the poet prisoner

his jailer
laughs

what will you write
.
.
.
.
of this

a ha ha

and what
will you make
.
.
.
.
out of that

blood spills
droplets
to the floor

teeth fall
hardly a sound
where they settle

each movement

each moment

brings him close
to the end

.
.
.
.

a gift of paper
small
a gift of pencil
blunted to stub

come
come
come you poet
write me your poem
write me
now

~

the universe is black
and contained
within a room

four rising walls
and a hardened floor

there are no openings

only
the dark

until
the beam of a lonely ray
up in a roof
so high
he can hardly
imagine it

the sun
is a kindness
with a benevolent face

who longs to shine
even into the dark places
where no welcome lingers
to greet passing light

a single ray
through an un-guessed hole
a halo
around a sharp white point

first
high on a wall
then slow-moving around
and down

circling the room

lower
low
towards the floor

as day-time passed
and the sun moved
in its progression

through the sky

slowly
so so slow

until ray meets floor
and shines its light
for a moment in passing
upon the upturned face
of one poor man

on his knees

face upturned
eyes closed
reverent as
a worshiper

praising
the sun

~

so

so you poet
mine

so that is a poem

well
I know it now

I know you now

tomorrow I will pound a poem
of my own

metal on metal

can you guess the name

my poem will be called

once
a hole
was here

a ha 
a ha ha ha

once a hole

---

© Frank Prem, 2017

June 2017 Poem #37: five bird poems (Benalla)

24/01/18