By Thomas Page A man stands at a precipice, a deluge comes. He allows the soot and ash of a dying age wash over him. Can Cathleen ever be heard again Over the roar of the coming age; an age without reason? A gentle sound interrupts Yeats’ reverie. A young man comes in with … Continue reading “Stone Cottage”
Atlas of Puddles
By Thomas Page Have you ever seen an atlas of puddles Speckle the pavement? An atlas of puddles My feet are wet to the bone, my socks drenched And my shoes seemingly soaked, man. An atlas of puddles The pavement undulates ever so low Making deltas in the city plan An atlas of puddles The … Continue reading Atlas of Puddles
“Akimbo”
By Thomas Page Walt Whitman, he himself, prepares to take a portrait. A portrait of something beyond the Walt that has been know. The Walt of Manhattan, the dandy pedagogue, known for his tendency To prefer the physical over the spiritual To desire what can be attained over what can be inferred He, the … Continue reading “Akimbo”
Homestead
By Thomas Page With the glide of a Pen, Emily Dickinson Writes a little poem. She looks out her room’s Window, the cemetery Calls her to picture Momento mori— The fly captures dying light From someone’s pale eyes The buzz steals the soul As the weak lids close firmly To open nevermore. She puts … Continue reading Homestead
