Sunday, January 29, 2012
image borrowed in bing
Movies are always my passion,
even when women’s charms are not;
sitting in dark rooms my fashion,
my gaze on silver screens bear-caught--
capturing my soul in mid-trot
as Richard Burton’s deep voice sings
Shakespeare, the meaning so distraught,
lost in Welch accent’s silver wings.
I love you, Shane, said Joey so alone.
I love you too much not to say
a man needs madness, not dog bones,
in order to cut the rope some day
and be free, floating on blue bays.
I love you, Spartacus, father
I will never know, as the rays
of sunshine died without bother.
I love you, Antoninus, like
the son I will never ever meet,
driving the dagger deep as spike,
knowing soon they would pierce his feet,
cruxified by hundreds along streets,
with cobblestone faces and bloody tears,
little did he know he would meet
his son as souls fled in mirrors.
Dalton Trumbo without retreat
from blacklisting, got Kirk’s fine ears
burning with gratitude’s pure heat,
reinstating his name sans fear.
This is my attempt to construct a French Ballade.
Would you like to hear the author to read this poem to you?