A poem by Wulf Zendik

Here's a poem I discovered on the Zendik website called Another Summer.

Another Summer

In the warm October wind. . . leaves frolic while dying
Another summer's last sighing
Ah life so quickly flies—and mornings pain my eyes
The daze of last night's chanted craze and lost forgotten song
merges again to smoky haze yes the time of this year is long

the day burns high—as I
hiding hind faded shades. . . await the dark
And the falling spark
etches brown rimmed holes upon a pillow slip—another trip
Fellowship of the weed my mortal need
Ah dope are you my first or final grope?

And in the warm afternoon wind. . . leaves frolic while dying
another summer's goodbying
Nowhere to go and today is past
Life moves so slow and time moves so fast

Oh hear the bird song—sweet progressions never wrong
I begin to hum and reach to strum
till the corner glooms fade slow to black
I count a thousand dooms in similar rooms; and there's no going back
The day in silence crashes. Brush away the ashes
Rise from my bed—weary head

See the night gather its might
I clench my frights
and go to play electric flights
and shout my sage's rages from bright lit stages
while shadowy faces from prosaic places
smile and grieve that I perceive
their joy and pain in each refrain—and then they leave

Yet I recall her small, her timorous, her elfin smile
We did fall in the music's brief while
Ah but then, such quick and exquisite rapport vanishes evermore
through an exit door

Oh I wearied from my long night's wail
Wondering if I did fail, make a joke, share the smoke
Into forgetfulness to creep, again to sleep
And in the slow swing of night's metronome. . .
deep in mind's associating catacomb. . . I dream a poem in monochrome

What good is such subliminal prayer from a lonely player
What is worthwhile?
Make a rhyme for a fear to beguile? Trade a line for a tear or a smile?
Ah but when I have naught but this singing page—when there is no wage
no pay, no yea, no place to play—the poem holds my madness at bay
Holds my mind from the fright of me, to that finer part of me
The Art of me
Which may speak on and endure, surviving
this pitiful and poor, mortal striving
And in the warm night wind—leaves frolic while dying
Another summer's last sighing

by Wulf Zendik
http://www.zendik.org/Arts/litindex.html