Poems Written in Exile

POEMS WRITTEN IN EXILE AT LAKE MORTON, NO. 126


There is a charm in the fidgets
of inscriptions, the graffiti of nonsense,
dadaist sagacious statements,
scribbled on whitewashed walls, when seen
by old eyes that blur and turn the alphabet
into a dance. It is like being exiled from
the illusions of common sense,
Living in the truth of the imaginative life.
It is similar to seeing a man standing
before you, and not seeing this man
as your father.
The moisture, perhaps a tear, perhaps just
a liquid smear that appears insignificantly
under an eyelash due to the skin's liquescence,
as the stare watches the figures, once letters,
scribbled by a wag on a wall
move as if a chorus line.



POEMS WRITTEN IN EXILE AT LAKE MORTON, NO. 129



The old poet inside the tower of stone
Hears the roar of surf, roundels of sea gulls,
Looks at how the dampness has darkened
The swirls of cement between the stones.
Each stone now has a different face
Than when the stone was young;
Some breads green, some breads gold.
Rereads his words he wrote when young,
He thought at that time, the words clairvoyant,
But now these words are an empty rhetoric.



Duane Locke

Posted over on Subtle Tea

His old biographical notes, published many times,
are now obsolete. The notes stated that he lived
in an old decaying house in the sunny Tampa slums.
The house was condemned by the city of Tampa
inspectors, and after his living at this location
for fifty years, he was force to leave
within six days.

The forced move was due to the fall of the bungalow
in his large back yard. The bungalow contained a
priceless literary scholarly library which is now
under debris. An army of inspectors descended and
decided he could no longer live in his home, so
Duane Locke became one of the homeless.

The fall also crushed his car,
so Duane Locke is car-less.

The saddest accompaniment was that his seven cats
had to be sent to the humane society and his dog,
Pookie, put to sleep. Duane Locke is now
cat-less and dog-less.

As a transient, he is temporarily living,
bereft of all his possessions, as an exile
by Lake Morton in Lakeland, Florida.