Hold my hand against the wall

And blow the pigment through the reed

Here am I and there us all

And everything that you need.


There’s the cattle of the plain

And there the bird of the sky.

Avoid the horns that cause pain

And the spots that lie.


We’ve been here for generations

Citizens of these caves

Remembering all of the lamentations

That came with the abundance of graves.


Do you ever think that these prints

Will hold on for many winters and springs

Like the shadows of the bones’ remnants

Or the wings on the platters of kings?


I may know your name and you know mine

But that will dissolve like the flesh and marrow

But the while the maple may die, the pine

Stays green throughout the reigns of the pharaohs.


Give me your hand and I will blow the pigment

To reveal yourself on the walls of our home

To let you know that you are not my figment

And have mastery over the loam.


There we are on the wall

There we are distinct from the wrawl.


Since We Last Parted

For the Class of 2020


No one can predict the future

Especially in the classroom

Like a jewel in a suture

Lost in the ink of the book doome.


I know you wanted an ending

More deserving of the stories

We read in class or poems sounding

Like national songs for glories.


Four years of work now combusting–

An incandescent bulb dying

The wolfram’s wire rust encrusting–

The lumens seemingly descrying


The setting sun ‘fore new moon.

How can there be celebrations

When a force unsee’ble impugn

Entire lands. Generations


Seeing the pain of the fourth horseman.

His pale horse’s breath worsening

The malfeasance of congressmen

Washing the lambsblood’s safe painting


On the wood. How can joy be found

In a time marked by its ebbings?

A season not of harvest proud

But of locusts unassuaging


Hunger. It seems to be the endtimes

But take to heart that we rose from

The ether and the mist. The windchimes

Produce to us tunes that we can rhumb


To be our echo. This is your

Song to be grooved into vinyl

That can be retrieved evermore

Listening for tunes not final.



There are those who would say that the teacher is dead

Because of the advent of computers

Which can instruct vis-a-vis

Like Alexander’s tutor looking out on Macedonia

And showing all of the land alexandrine

As the bodies dance on the firmament

Guiding the cavalry under the tails of comets.


There are those who would say that the teacher is outdated

With her books chanting the chorus of fords, farms, and factories

When the world is lit by electrical fires in plastic forges—

A beauty bound by beast’s lasso—

A mill the bedfellow of a dam.

There are those who say that the teacher is


An archer with a weightless quiver

Constantly missing his bullseye

But satisfied that it hit a target—

A rain of arrows will eventually kill a steer

Even though it costs a drought of arrowheads.


There are those who would say that the teacher is evil—

The mouthpiece of the devil

Spouting out the the flames of moloch as gospel

Making a generation of degenerates

Espousing the ways of wrong.


Under a million rotations of the sky,

There are those who wish to bridle the village

And blame the ills on knowledge rather than action—

The seeds in the mouth rather than the thieving hand—

A stained-glass of little lies built up as truth blocking out the sun.


The teeth of the dagger hurt just as much as its wielder

You cannot blame the canines in your side solely on the hound.

The truth is imbued with the harshness

Just like Diogenes’ man thrown on the steps of the Academy.

One thought on “Three Poems by Thomas Page

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