The Poet In His Twilight Years

I have watched the black and white interviews
with the poet on his ramshackle farm,
quoting himself, word for word, his old muse
near-suicidal, disposed to self-harm,
and how dark are the later, silver years
when the laurels clutter the poet’s head;
it is enough to bring a man to tears,
if only allergies when eyes are red.
He writes so little verse, but acts a script
writ daily, with what life he may muster,
his mask such as is in a pharaoh’s crypt,
sometimes lacquered, sometimes just lackluster.

WB Yeats

Was it a matter much discussed
among those feisty Fates,
a man over which they oft fussed—
that poet who was Yeats?
Symbols all hold sacred power,
or so he oft professed,
from Gyre to Wheel to the Tower,
all icons were thought blessed,
granting to the conjurer’s art
the skill to summon verse
that conveys from a mind and heart
songs for bards to rehearse.
Ireland has had its word-weavers
in days of yore and lore,
but the Fates were true believers
when they emptied their store
into their Fae cauldron to brew
this man of Tarot sight
whose poetry embodied true
the Emerald Isle’s rite.


Ambition is a busybody hobgoblin
green with envy
as it fidgets in the gut,
peering out upon the wide world
and wanting to stride over lands
with a tall, dark shadow,
hoping to become an
if it consumes enough as it
tantalizes an appetite
too unwieldy
in the bloated,

Ambition is an anxious salamander
smouldering in the heart
and thirsting for the blood
which fuels its flames,
yearning for the yields
of other hearts
so it may become a
as it burns up its own pulmonary
with stoked, flaring aspirations
and inadequate kindling
from the mortal frame.

Ambition is a neurotic imp
eliciting electric impulsiveness
as it pulses in the brain,
imagining itself a cosmic
conjuring thunderstorms
to subjugate empires and cosmos
if it only schemes ingeniously enough,
stroking its skull,
and its ego,
toward a seizure of
jittery spasms
and an aneurysm of
magical thought.